Greta the Climate Goblin - Seeing Things

 CHAD

The show was over. The station was closing down for the night. Greta, her spirit buoyed by the unexpected pep talk from Dusty and Celestine, exited Studio D. For a second, she thought she saw someone standing in the doorway across the hall, a tall thin man but when looked again, nobody was there. She stepped out of the side door of the cinderblock broadcast bunker, locking it behind her, and dropped her backpack into the milk crate on the back of her bike. The crunch of tires on gravel and the sweep of headlights across the face of the building drew her attention. She turned.

To her surprise, Chad Williams, the Boy Who Had Been Quarterback when she was in high school, opened the car door and stepped out of his father's old Ford Mustang.

"Hey, Greta… uh, you want a ride home? I mean, it’s late, and it’s… kind of creepy out here.” He smiled charmingly, something Greta would have died for two years ago and she started to smile back but noticed his eyes lingering on her costume. She placed a hand on one hip and the other on the grip of her bike's handlebars.

"Oh, how noble of you, Chad. Coming to rescue the damsel in neon fishnets from… the terrors of cornfield country?”

Chad laughed, stepping closer. "Exactly. You know, a real gentleman. I’ve got the best stereo in town… we could… uh, maybe listen to a tape together?”

His smile slowly spread and his eyes came to rest on her fishnet-clad legs again. Greta tilted her head, making sure that her bike was between the two of them.

"Hmm… a gentleman who insists on private ‘tape sessions’ after dark in an empty lot? Sounds… cliched.”

Chad took a step forward, reaching for Greta. She took a step back, pulling the bicycle along, maintaining her shield.

"C’mon, Greta, don’t be like that.” Chad stepped in closer. Great's eyes narrowed, hand tightening on the handlebar.

The sound of a car door slamming drew Chad and Greta's attention. Harold Jenkins, the station manager, bald, mustachioed, and built like a linebacker despite being somewhere in his mid-50s, strode toward both of them.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Williams?" Harold's voice, powerful enough to be heard over the roar of a newspaper press, carried clearly through the spring night.

Chad turned, "Oh. Hey, uh, Mr. Jenkins. I was just going to give her a ---"

Harold stepped in closer, "--- a ride? I don't think Miss Whittaker wants one. So, step back, or I'll arrange a ride for you, with the Fairhaven police."

Greta smirked and crossed her arms, "See! Even in my neon fishnets, I'm well protected."

Chad took a step back, muttering, "Whatever... you're weird, Greta."

Chad's car spit gravel as it left the parking lot. Harold watched the taillights recede into the distance.

"Are you alright, Gretchen?"

Greta rolled her eyes but smiled, "Yeah, I'm fine. Thank you for saving me from Small Town Horror #1."

Harold sighed, "Next time, try not to tempt fate with guys like that."

Greta sighed and brushed some dirt off of her costume. "Where would the fun in that be?"

Harold frowned, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, just...be careful. And, don't forget. Staff meeting at 10:00."

"Thanks again, Harold. I won't forget." Greta slid onto the seat. "See you in the morning."

THE RIDE HOME

Greta's fishnets made a swishing sound against her skirt as she rode down the two-lane toward town. The moon was bright in a cloudless sky. Her hands rested lightly on the handlebars as she thought about the events of the night.

Not a breath of wind stirred the fields around her but Greta swore that the corn seemed taller than it had been on her way to the station. As she continued pedaling, she thought she heard movement in the field. A faint rustling, almost like a language, carried through the darkness. Greta squinted but couldn't see any sign of movement. Despite her earlier bravado, she had been rattled by her confrontation with Chad.

"Alright, Gretchen, nothing creepy out here...nothing creepy..."

The moonlight caught something shiny between the stalks, stalks that were all pointing in her direction. She pedaled a little faster, "Corn doesn’t do that. Definitely a hallucination brought on by too much sugar, caffeine, and monster movies."

"...threshold...hinge...watch..."

Greta shook her head, "Yeah, Corn doesn’t Talk." She picked up her pace a little more, sweat beading along her hairline from the exertion.

"Totally imagining things... nothing to see here... just a normal late night commute past cornfields where there is absolutely nothing watching..."

The cornfield thinned as she got closer to town. Streetlights came into view, further dispelling the darkness. The whispers faded, replaced by the singing of crickets. As she turned off of the highway and onto her street, she took one last glance over her shoulder. The figure of a tall thin man stood out in the field, watching her, too still to be real. She didn't risk another glance.

Five minutes later, Greta was coasting into her driveway. The porch light was still on but the house was dark, her parents having gone to bed hours ago. She leaned her bike against the side of the garage, grabbed her backpack and went inside. The door was unlocked. It was always unlocked. Her house, her parents' house, was modest - square, two bedrooms, identical to just about every other house on the street. She went inside and flicked off the porch light.

The house smelled faintly of lemon-scented furniture polish. The grandfather clock in the entryway tick-tocked in a regular, predictable fashion. She took a deep breath and headed to the bathroom.

The bathroom light hummed faintly. The water in the shower sputtered for a couple of seconds before turning into a hot, steady spray. She stepped into the shower and slid the curtain closed. Water beat down on her. Fog engulfed her. Soap suds and shampoo washed away the night - her less-than-stellar first episode, Chad, the weird feeling she had gotten riding past the cornfield. The coughing fog machine, the "broom" mic...

She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly. A few minutes later, she turned off the water, wrapped her green hair in a towel, dried the rest of herself and slipped into a plain t-shirt and a pair of old boxer shorts. She made her way to the kitchen and poured a bowl of cereal from a box of FrankenBerry.

She opened her backpack and pulled out her notebook, flipped it open and wrote "The Casket of Dr. Calamari" and "Sir Alastair Mortimer Vale" and began jotting down notes.

,,, tentacle jokes...
... get rubber octopus prop...
... something to squirt ink...

... fake lab sparks - ask Elliot?...
... Cedric Wainwright - claimed role was too difficult... Sir Alastair claimed it was "inevitable"...

As she neared the bottom of her cereal bowl, she doodled a cartoon of an octopus in a lab coat at the bottom of the page. She got up, rinsed her bowl, grabbed her notebook and headed to bed.