Greta the Climate Goblin - High Points and Terror

PROFESSOR AVERY

AND MADAME CELESTINE

Early Friday evening. Lionel Avery was sitting in the station breakroom having a cup of coffee, having just finished setting up the experiment he was planning to tape for his show the next morning.

Madame Celestine was seated across from him. The two, scientist and psychic, had been talking.

"Correlation is not causation, Celestine. Humans are pattern-seeking creatures. We find meaning whether it exists or not." He passed her a mug filled with coffee that had been sitting for an unknowable amount of time.

Celestine smiled faintly, reaching for a packet of creamer. "And scientists are certainty-seeking creatures, Lionel. You reject meaning if you can't see it under a microscope."

The professor stirred his coffee. "Be that as it may, if psychic divination were valid, it would produce measurable, repeatable outcomes."

"Not everything meaningful is mechanical, Professor." She drew her tarot deck from a pocket on her dress and began to shuffle.

"Then it is not testable," he asserted.

She tapped the deck on the table, "What if it was?"

He paused, interest piqued. "Very well. Make a falsifiable claim."

Madame Celestine inclined her head and closed her eyes, no theatrics, no chanting, no drawing cards from her deck. Just quiet.

"The next three people to enter this room will be:
First — someone carrying something broken.
Second — someone who does not want to be here.
Third — someone bringing news.”

Avery folds his arms. "That is pretty vague."

Celestine opened one eye, "It will be precise enough."

They waited. Thirty seconds passed.

The door swung open. Max entered carrying a circuit board, "Professor, I think I just burned out a resistor on the..."

He paused and looked up at Lionel and Celestine. She smiled softly. Avery's face remained carefully neutral. Max said, "What?"

"I will be along to help you shortly, Max. Madame Celestine and I were just talking."

"Oh. Ok, Professor. I'll be in Studio C."

"Alright, son. I'll be right there."

Max departed and about a minute later, the door swung open again. Elliot walked in, headed straight across the room and started opening drawers. On his third try, he pulled out a pair of scissors and headed back out the door.

Avery threw Celestine a look. "I'd be willing to argue the point on that one. He clearly wanted to be here. He just didn't want to stay."

The door swung open a third time. Greta practically bounced into the room, her face was split in a wide smile. "Ratings came in! I'm up Twelve Points! Eat it "Knitting with Nora! Woot!" She bounded back out of the room and ran down the hall, her boot steps echoing off of the cinderblock walls, joined by a victorious "Woooooo!"

The breakroom returned to silence.

"Three data points do not constitute proof," he told her.

"No. But it does constitute interest."

Lionel Avery looked steadily at Madame Celestine, dressed in her gypsy attire. He stood and put his jacket on.

"If you are willing to repeat this under controlled conditions..."

She smiled. "That depends. Sometimes, being uncontrolled is the point."

Lionel smiled and bowed his head slightly. "I'm going to go help Max. Have a good day, Celestine."

"You too, Lionel. You too."

GOBLIN AFTER MIDNIGHT

(EPISODE 5)

Fog curled lazily around the base of a set of rickety wooden “bleachers” that Greta  clearly built out of reclaimed pallets. A suspicious green glow pulsed from underneath.

The Tesla coil hummed softly.

Greta stepped into the camera frame, boots slow, deliberate.

She leaned one elbow on the bleachers and smiled like she knew something the audience didn’t.

“Good evening, my lovely landfill lurkers. It’s me—Greta the Climate Goblin—and tonight I’m bringing you a special treat.”

She tapped the side of the bleachers with her knuckles. Something thumped faintly from beneath. She widened her eyes innocently.

“Don’t worry. It’s probably just a raccoon. Or a cursed athletic mascot. Same thing, really.”

She steppd forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Tonight’s feature asks an important question: What happens when something ancient, slimy, and deeply misunderstood decides it’s had enough of high school football?”

She gestured dramatically at the "bleachers".

“That’s right. It Came from Beneath the Bleachers.”

She grinned. “A cautionary tale about school spirit, toxic waste, and the dangers of sitting somewhere you haven’t inspected first. Now I know what you’re thinking. ‘Greta, I always check beneath my bleachers.’”

She walked slowly toward the camera and tilted her head, "Oh? Do you? Every time?"

She leaned slightly closer to the nearest camera. “Because sometimes what’s lurking back there isn’t just old gum and forgotten dignity…” A pause. A small smile. “…sometimes it’s staring right back at you.”

She straightened, playful again. “And speaking of staring—if you’re watching from home, adjust your rabbit ears and settle in. I see you out there."

She pointed toward the camera. "Yes, you. Don't look behind you. That's how they know."

She returned to the bleachers and leaned on them, "So if you’ve ever wondered what might be watching you from the shadows of school pride… if you’ve ever felt a chill while sitting on cold, splintered wood… if you’ve ever thought, ‘Hmm. Something back there seems… hungry.’”

She raised one eyebrow, "Then, tonight’s your night."

She blew a kiss to the camera as the opening credits began to roll on the movie.

THE THING AT THE BUS STOP

Greta wrapped up her show. Elliot pulled the tape, labeling it as "Goblin After Dark, Episode 5" and includes the date.

"You seemed much more relaxed tonight. I think you're finally finding your voice."

Greta continued stuffing props into her backpack, "Thanks, it's a lot easier knowing that nobody is watching," she says, nodding toward the live count sign.

"That?" Elliot chuckled. "That sign is just a prop we made for you. It doesn't actually do anything."

"Wait. What?"

"Yeah. Totally fake." He reached over and pressed a button. The number goes up and down depending on what buttons he pushes. "Harold's idea. Like the 'magic feather' from Dumbo, only in reverse.  I'd say he was right."

Greta sputtered. "But - wait, how many people have been watching the show?"

Elliot shrugs. "I don't know. We won't get that information until sometime Monday. There's a box on the back of the tvs that records what channel the TV is tuned to. It's just not transmitted to us in real time. But, you did get a bump in viewers after last Friday's airing."

"The Three Pigs Meet the Wolfman?" Greta asked, her tone incredulous.

"I know that you saw the report. I heard you shouting about the 12-point jump earlier. The detailed breakdown listed females aged 16-20 as your primary viewer demographic. I would have thought males would be your primary audience."

She raised one eyebrow. "Oh... and why is that?"

"Because you're pretty, and you flirt with your audience. I was that age once. I know how boys are."

"So, you think I'm pretty..."

"Greta, you know you're pretty. Don't go reading into what I said. I am way too old for you." Elliot’s voice was flat. "Just keep doing what you're doing, and your show will be great. I need to finish up here. Lock the door on your way out?"

"Um, yeah. Sure."

Greta headed for the door, locked up, and rode off on her bike. Her eyes kept darting toward the cornfields on either side of the highway, pedaling hard. The whatever she had seen in the field the week before was on her mind as she headed into Fairhaven.

It wasn't until she was passing the bus stop at the end of her street that she saw it. A vague, man-shaped shadow reflected in the glass of the bus stop's shelter.

The face—

Not quite visible.

Because it isn’t a face.

It’s two profiles in one.

One looking left.

One looking right.

Like a coin turned upright.

Greta’s blood ran cold. She doubled her efforts, racing down the middle of the street toward her parents' house. She was already half-off of the bike by the time she coasted into the yard. She grabbed her backpack and let the bike fall in the grass and ran for the door. Her mother would probably complain about the bike in the morning but she didn't care, she just wanted to get inside.

She locked the front door.

She dropped her backpack on the couch and headed to the kitchen.

She locked the back door, too.

As she returned to the living room to collect her backpack, her heart was still hammering in her chest.