SOUND of oppressive, dead silence, punctuated by strained grunts
The air is a physical presence. Thick, gelatinous, choked with dust motes that dance in a single, harsh shaft of light from a GRIME-ENCRUSTED DORMER WINDOW. This place is a tomb of forgotten things, smelling of old varnish, baked dust, and the sickly sweet scent of dead wasps.
SIMON (62), weary and drenched in sweat, shoves his shoulder against a monstrous OAK WARDROBE. The dark wood is rooted to the floorboards. He is a man worn down by obligation.
He GRUNTS, a short, ugly sound. The thin cotton of his shirt offers no protection from the biting wood grain.
On the other side of the wardrobe stands AGNES (late 60s). Her sharp, critical exterior is armor. Her hands, knotted with arthritis and spotted like quail eggs, are pressed uselessly against the wood. She isn't pushing. She's leaning.
Her voice is flat, tired.
She wipes her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a grey smudge. The harsh light is cruel, deepening the hollows under her eyes.
Simon stops pushing. His heart hammers against his ribs. He steps back, his knees POPPING audibly. He glares at the wardrobe—hideous Victorian Gothic, with pug-nosed gargoyles leering from its corners.
Agnes doesn't argue. She slumps onto a stack of old National Geographic magazines. The yellow spines GROAN under her weight. She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket.
Simon nods, not listening. He moves to the window, scratching a small circle in the filth with his fingernail. He sees the rusted roof of his car below. A desperate escape route.
Simon turns. Agnes stares at a broken lampshade on the floor.
Simon leans against the warm, rough brick of the chimney breast. He picks up a tepid water bottle. The plastic CRINKLES loudly as he drinks.
Silence descends.
SOUND of the house settling, timbers GROANING in the heat.
Simon watches a spider navigate a pile of old curtains. A profound sadness settles in his chest, a physical weight.
Simon looks at her. Her eyes are red-rimmed.
He pushes himself off the chimney, done with feelings.
Agnes glares but stands, brushing dust from her slacks.
They position themselves. The wardrobe looms. Simon wedges his foot against a loose floorboard for leverage.
They HEAVE.
Simon's face turns a dangerous shade of plum. Agnes lets out a high-pitched strain.
The wardrobe GROANS. It tilts.
Then, with a SCREECH of wood on wood like a dying violin, it slides six inches.
They push another foot.
And then—
CRACK!
The front right leg of the wardrobe, riddled with woodworm, snaps cleanly. The massive cabinet lurches forward, pitching like a drunk.
He grabs Agnes, yanking her back just as—
SLAM!
The wardrobe crashes face-first onto the floor. The doors fly open with a violent BANG.
A grey MUSHROOM CLOUD of dust explodes into the air.
SOUND of SHATTERING GLASS from within the cabinet.
Simon and Agnes COUGH, waving hands in front of their faces.
He squints through the settling dust. The wardrobe lies like a fallen soldier, its contents spilled across the floorboards.
Among a pile of moth-eaten coats and stiff, yellowed linens, a rectangular object has slid across the floor. A taxidermy display case. Its glass front is shattered.
Simon crouches. He carefully moves a shard of glass. He reaches inside and pulls out the occupant.
It's a badger.
But not just a badger.
He lifts it into the light. The creature is frozen upright. It wears a miniature, custom-tailored RED VELVET WAISTCOAT with tiny gold buttons.
In one wired paw, it holds a TINY BRASS CANDLESTICK.
In the other, a MONOCLE on a chain.
CLOSE ON THE BADGER. Its glass eyes are crossed, giving it a look of profound, existential confusion.
Agnes leans in, touching the velvet vest.
Simon sees the gold chain. He gives it a gentle tug. A dime-sized clock face emerges. Stuck at 4:20.
He stares at the badger's face. The crossed eyes. The slight snarl clashing with the formal wear. The sheer, overwhelming absurdity of it.
A sound escapes him. A SNORT.
Agnes looks at him. Her mouth twitches. She looks back at the badger.
The dam cracks.
The image of her pompous, red-faced Uncle Gerald stuffed into a tuxedo superimposes over the badger. The resemblance is uncanny.
A strange, high-pitched GIGGLE escapes Agnes. It sounds rusty.
He starts to shake. He sits down hard on the floor, still clutching the badger, his shoulders heaving.
Agnes covers her mouth, but the laughter leaks out. She sinks down next to him, her knees cracking. She points a trembling finger at the monocle.
And then they are gone.
Simon ROARS with laughter. A deep, belly laugh that hurts his ribs. He leans back against the toppled wardrobe, tears streaming down his dust-streaked face.
Agnes is GASPING, rocking back and forth, slapping her thigh.
They laugh until they can't breathe. Hysterical, cathartic, pressure-valve-blowing laughter that scours the grief and tension from the room.
The laughter finally tapers off, replaced by hiccups and deep, shuddering breaths.
Simon wipes his eyes with his shirt hem. He feels drained, but the weight in his chest has lightened.
Agnes leans her head back against the wardrobe. Her face is flushed. She looks younger.
Simon chuckles. The air feels lighter.
She extends a hand. Simon takes it. Her grip is strong. He hauls her to her feet.
Simon turns to the wall that was hidden. There, peeling and painted over, is a small plywood door.
Agnes walks to it, hesitates.
She nods, looking at the small door.
He carefully places the badger butler on the stack of National Geographics. It stares out with its crossed eyes, a silent, absurd guardian.
Simon steps up beside Agnes.
Simon reaches for the latch. It's stiff, rusted. He uses both thumbs, pushing until the metal SCREECHES and gives way.
The door swings inward, revealing a dark, cool void. It smells of dry earth and something metallic.
He clicks on his flashlight. The BEAM cuts through the darkness, illuminating a narrow crawlspace.
And there, sitting in the dust about three feet in, is a small, grey metal LOCKBOX.
They stare into the darkness, the beam of light holding steady on the box. On the next secret.
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