A short story inspired by The Three Billy Goats Gruff and Neil Gaiman’s Masterclass on Storytelling

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A few days later, the Troll was sitting in her cozy little kitchen, quietly working on the latest Sudoku puzzle in The Woodland Times. She was just about to take a sip of tea when a great racket began above her. Dust flew everywhere, and pieces of paint began to chip and flake off her ceiling. One fell directly into her tea. The pictures on the wall went lopsided again and a few books fell over.

Alarmed, the Troll ran to the door calling, “Who is up there trip-trapping on my roof?” She dashed up the stairs and found herself face to face with another goat. This goat was larger than the last one that had visited her. He was dressed in a trendy sport coat and his beard was trimmed close to his jaw line.

“Oh,” the goat said when he saw the Troll. He flashed a smarmy grin. “You must be the Troll.”

“That’s…right.” The Troll replied slowly, not entirely sure what to make of this interaction.

“It’s nice to meet you, Miz Troll.” He said with aplomb. “I’m Bill Gruff.”

“Oh, yes!” The Troll smiled, genuinely. “You must be Billy’s big brother.”

“On the horn.” Bill replied affirmatively, marching around the top of the Troll’s house surveying the location. “The kid said you had a nice place here. He didn’t do it justice.”

“Why…thank you–” said the Troll, uncertainly.

The goat interrupted, “I was just headed over the bridge to the meadow.”

“It’s actually not a bridge. It’s the roof of my house,” replied the Troll.

The goat ignored her. “I’m thinking of building some houses over there, since it’s such a popular spot. It’ll be the trendiest neighborhood around. And you know what that means?”

The Troll shook her head slightly.

“MONEY!” The business-goat rubbed his hooves together greedily.

The Troll didn’t answer but just stood dumbfounded, processing what this would mean for her quiet little spot in the gully. 

Bill took a look at the Troll’s face and attempted to reassure her, “Don’t you see? I’m about to make you a very rich troll, Miz Troll.” He reached into the breast pocket of his sport coat and retrieved a checkbook and a fancy pen. “Name your price.” He posed, checkbook in hoof, ready to write.

“I-I don’t know what to say.” The Troll tried to maintain her composure. “This is my home!”

“Come now,” the slick goat said in a dulcet tone. “This is the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“But I don’t want to move. I don’t want to sell! No matter the amount.”

Bill’s nose twitched in annoyance, but he smiled again and stated emphatically, “Miz Troll, everyone has a price.”

“Not me.” Said the Troll. 

The goat’s face fell, and anger flashed across his eyes. He took a few deliberate steps toward the Troll. Unsmiling, he handed her his card. It read:

Bill Gruff
Land Developer
Gruff, Gruff & Gruff, LLC

“Call me when you come to your senses, Miz Troll.” Then he turned on his hooves and trip-trapped back into the forest and out of sight.

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