Greta the Climate Goblin - Sometimes It Feels Like Somebody's Watching Me

 CHEF CHET

Another week goes by. Greta doesn't see anything unusual, no hazy figures in doorways, no lurking shadows looming in the cornfields on her way home. There was still tension between her and her mother, Margaret, but there had been no further mention of Greta's hair, fashion sense, or television show.

As Friday rolled around, Greta, with a homemade tesla coil, an octopus puppet dressed in a lab coat, and her notebook tucked carefully into her backpack, rode out to the station. As she pulled into the gravel parking lot, she spotted "Chef Chet" unloading some plastic bins from the back of his station wagon. His dog, a golden retriever named Ralph, stood off to one side, sniffing the gravel along the building. Chet nodded in her direction, and she rode over, leaning her bike against the side of the building.

"Morning, Goblin Queen."

"Climate Goblin," she corrected automatically. "You're here on a Friday?"

"Yeah, Lionel, Professor Avery? He's a  judge at the local elementary's science fair. He took Max with him to help, so they taped their shows with Elliot last night. So there's a soundstage open this morning, I came in to record a rib recipe. They take a long time to cook. I'll have to edit a bunch of it out, but I figured this was a good time to do it."

"OK, need a hand carrying anything?"

"Sure, grab those two bins on the left."

Greta picked up the plastic totes and followed Chet to Soundstage A. Ralph feel in behind them as they walked.

"Thanks. Hey, Greta, have you spoken to our fearless captain yet?"

"No. Why?"

"Last week's ratings are in."

Greta felt her stomach drop.

"Is it bad?" She asked, although she already knew the answer.

"You dropped."

Greta took a breath, trying to look unaffected.

"How much?"

"Eight percent from your predecessor. Another five on episode two.”

"That’s not catastrophic."

"No. What's catastrophic is getting beaten by Knitting with Nora."

Greta winced.

"It’s public access, Greta. Harold isn't going to fire you. I just figured you’d want to know.”

"Was it the termite one?"

"Probably."

"I thought the anteater was conceptually strong."

"It was conceptually weird." Chet took a breath, "You're trying really hard."

"That’s generally a good thing."

"Not on camera... you don't look like you're having fun."

"But I am."

"No. You're performing 'fun'. The audience can tell."

Greta frowned and folded her arms across her chest. "I'm building a brand."

He shook his head, "You're building a costume."

Greta glared at him.

"Greta, you don't have to be...her." He made a vague sweeping gesture with his hand, clearly referencing a certain Gothic horror queen without saying her name. "She's iconic and there are already dozens off knock-offs."

Greta looks up at the station's neon "KMEL" sign.

"Do you think I'm bad at this?"

"Not at all." Chet walked around to the other side of the table in the center of the soundstage. "Look, the first month of hosting anything is weird. In my first month, I said "massage your breasts' when talking about chicken so many times, I sounded like an obscene phone call."

Greta giggled softly.

"Relax on camera. Or don't. Just don't force it. The audience can tell when you force it."

HOST LIKE NOBODY’S WATCHING 

(BECAUSE THEY AREN'T)

Once again, Greta found herself in Studio D. She was standing just to the side of her forest set, a couple of fake trees, a velvet backdrop and her ever-unreliable fog machine. The Live Viewer Counter sat firmly on the number eight. Eight people watching. She took a deep breath. Exhaled.

"Ok, Greta, you can do this. Trees and whales are counting on you. You are mystery, you are menace, you are more than the girl dyeing her hair in the upstairs bathroom while arguing with her dad about the power bill."

She adjusted the skull brooch on her cape. It fell off, again. She caught it.

"Just go out there and do it like nobody's wafching..." she glanced at the Live Viewer Counter again. The number dropped to five. "... because they aren't."

She leaned closer to the mirror.
“You are the Climate Goblin.”
She struck a dramatic pose. Her elbow knocked over a stack of VHS tapes. They clattered loudly.

She froze.

“…It’s fine. It’s texture.”

A deep breath.

“Just go out there. Say the lines. Commit to the bit. If it’s awkward, make it deliberate. If you stumble, call it performance art.”

She flipped her cape, nearly stepping on it.

“And remember — the wolf may huff and puff…”

She pointed at herself in the mirror.
“…but you control the thermostat.”

Elliot counted her down and whispered, “You’re on.”

Greta closed her eyes.

“One day they will chant my name.”

She opened them.

“But, I have to get through tonight first.”

She stepped into the lights — not quite confident, but absolutely determined.

“I am Greta… the Climate Goblin… and tonight’s cinematic cautionary tale asks a very important ecological question…”

She paused, looking into the camera, trying not to crack a smile, “…can proper insulation prevent werewolf-related property damage? Well, my landfill lurkers, let's find out together in tonight’s tale, 'The Three Little Pigs Meet the Wolfman!"

SEEING THINGS

The red "ON AIR" sign clicked off behind frosted glass.

Greta pushed through the side door, messenger bag slung over one shoulder, mismatched lace gloves still on. Her green hair was a little wilted from studio lights. She looked tired — but satisfied.

A few crumpled cue cards stuck out of her bag.

Elliot moved out from behind the camera and started turning the lights back on. "You were good tonight. Much more relaxed."

Greta began stuffing props into her backpack. "That's not what the phones said."

Elliot popped the tape out of the camera and labeled it "Goblin After Midnight - Ep 3" and included the date. "The phone lines are cowards."

The lights flickered. Elliot glanced up, frowning, "Be careful going home."

Greta scoffed, "Please, the scariest things in Fairhaven are the farm subsidy reports," before turning and heading toward the parking lot.

The tv station's lobby was empty, fluorescent lights buzz overhead. Greta’s boots echoed down down the hallway. She passed a trophy case - local broadcasting awards dating back to the 70s. She caught her reflection in the glass.

Green hair, eco-goth, dark lipstick.

She paused.

For a half-second, her reflections lagged behind her.

Not much... just... off.

She tilted her head.

Her reflection didn't.

Behind her, in the reflection, she noticed a vague shape. Something tall, slender, unnaturally still. Too long of limb. Its face obscured by fingerprints and smudges on the glass.

She spun.

Nothing was there.

She turned back around. Her reflection was normal.

"Damn it, Elliot. You got me seeing things."