The Badger in the Vest
In the sweltering heat of a deceased relative's attic, two grieving in-laws struggle with the physical weight of furniture and the crushing weight of silence, until a grotesque discovery forces a crack in their armor.
INT. ATTIC - DAY
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.
AGNES
> It’s not moving, Simon.
Her voice is flat, tired.
SIMON
> (Breathless)
> It has to move. The access panel is behind it. Unless you want to leave the wiring alone and let the whole place burn down next time a storm hits.
AGNES
> (Muttering)
> Maybe I do.
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.
SIMON
> (Gasping)
> Five minutes. I need... five.
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.
AGNES
> It’s the humidity. It’s not the heat. It’s the damp. Even up here.
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.
AGNES
> Do you think he knew?
Simon turns. Agnes stares at a broken lampshade on the floor.
SIMON
> Knew what?
AGNES
> That he had all this... junk. That he was drowning in it.
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.
SIMON
> He knew. He just didn't care. Or he cared too much. It's the same thing in the end.
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.
AGNES
> (A long, shuddering sigh)
> I found a box of letters yesterday. From our mother. He kept them. I thought he burned them.
Simon looks at her. Her eyes are red-rimmed.
SIMON
> He kept everything, Agnes. You know that. Look around. He kept yogurt containers.
AGNES
> (Snapping)
> It's different. Letters are different.
SIMON
> I suppose.
He pushes himself off the chimney, done with feelings.
SIMON
> Right. One more try. On three. And really push this time. Don't just pose.
Agnes glares but stands, brushing dust from her slacks.
AGNES
> I was pushing, Simon. You're just weak.
SIMON
> I am not weak. I have a bad rotator cuff.
AGNES
> You have a bad attitude.
They position themselves. The wardrobe looms. Simon wedges his foot against a loose floorboard for leverage.
SIMON
> One. Two. THREE!
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.
SIMON
> (Yelling)
> Keep going! Don't stop!
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.
SIMON
> Watch out!
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.
AGNES
> (Hacking)
> My god. Is everyone alive?
SIMON
> (Wheezing)
> I think so.
He squints through the settling dust. The wardrobe lies like a fallen soldier, its contents spilled across the floorboards.
SIMON
> Well. That’s one way to move it.
AGNES
> Is it broken?
SIMON
> The leg is gone. The rest looks... solid enough. But look at what fell out.
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
> (A whisper)
> What... is that... is that a badger?
SIMON
> It appears to be. A badger butler.
Agnes leans in, touching the velvet vest.
AGNES
> It has a pocket watch. Simon, look. It has a tiny pocket watch.
Simon sees the gold chain. He gives it a gentle tug. A dime-sized clock face emerges. Stuck at 4:20.
SIMON
> Arthur. Arthur bought this. Someone made this, and Arthur paid money for it.
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.
AGNES
> (Voice wavering)
> He looks... he looks like Uncle Gerald at your wedding.
The dam cracks.
The image of her pompous, red-faced Uncle Gerald stuffed into a tuxedo superimposes over the badger. The resemblance is uncanny.
SIMON
> (Choking)
> The vest... it’s... it’s velvet.
A strange, high-pitched GIGGLE escapes Agnes. It sounds rusty.
AGNES
> He’s holding a candlestick. Like he’s going to show us to our rooms.
SIMON
> In the badger hotel.
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.
AGNES
> It’s... it’s just so... dignified.
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.
AGNES
> (Shrieking)
> It’s so ugly! It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen!
SIMON
> (Yelling, holding the badger up)
> He kept it! In the wardrobe! For special occasions!
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.
AGNES
> (Whispering)
> God. I needed that.
SIMON
> Me too.
> (Looking at the badger)
> We should keep him. Put him on the mantelpiece.
AGNES
> Don't you dare.
> (A genuine, tired smile)
> Maybe the guest room. Scare the hell out of visitors.
Simon chuckles. The air feels lighter.
AGNES
> Help me up.
She extends a hand. Simon takes it. Her grip is strong. He hauls her to her feet.
AGNES
> Okay. The wardrobe is down. The badger is liberated. Where is this damn access panel?
Simon turns to the wall that was hidden. There, peeling and painted over, is a small plywood door.
SIMON
> There. The heart of the beast.
Agnes walks to it, hesitates.
AGNES
> Simon?
SIMON
> Yeah?
AGNES
> Thanks. For... you know. Moving the thing.
SIMON
> You pushed too.
She nods, looking at the small door.
AGNES
> What do you think is in there? More badgers?
SIMON
> God, I hope not.
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
> Ready?
AGNES
> No. But let's do it anyway.
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.
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.
AGNES
> It’s not moving, Simon.
Her voice is flat, tired.
SIMON
> (Breathless)
> It has to move. The access panel is behind it. Unless you want to leave the wiring alone and let the whole place burn down next time a storm hits.
AGNES
> (Muttering)
> Maybe I do.
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.
SIMON
> (Gasping)
> Five minutes. I need... five.
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.
AGNES
> It’s the humidity. It’s not the heat. It’s the damp. Even up here.
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.
AGNES
> Do you think he knew?
Simon turns. Agnes stares at a broken lampshade on the floor.
SIMON
> Knew what?
AGNES
> That he had all this... junk. That he was drowning in it.
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.
SIMON
> He knew. He just didn't care. Or he cared too much. It's the same thing in the end.
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.
AGNES
> (A long, shuddering sigh)
> I found a box of letters yesterday. From our mother. He kept them. I thought he burned them.
Simon looks at her. Her eyes are red-rimmed.
SIMON
> He kept everything, Agnes. You know that. Look around. He kept yogurt containers.
AGNES
> (Snapping)
> It's different. Letters are different.
SIMON
> I suppose.
He pushes himself off the chimney, done with feelings.
SIMON
> Right. One more try. On three. And really push this time. Don't just pose.
Agnes glares but stands, brushing dust from her slacks.
AGNES
> I was pushing, Simon. You're just weak.
SIMON
> I am not weak. I have a bad rotator cuff.
AGNES
> You have a bad attitude.
They position themselves. The wardrobe looms. Simon wedges his foot against a loose floorboard for leverage.
SIMON
> One. Two. THREE!
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.
SIMON
> (Yelling)
> Keep going! Don't stop!
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.
SIMON
> Watch out!
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.
AGNES
> (Hacking)
> My god. Is everyone alive?
SIMON
> (Wheezing)
> I think so.
He squints through the settling dust. The wardrobe lies like a fallen soldier, its contents spilled across the floorboards.
SIMON
> Well. That’s one way to move it.
AGNES
> Is it broken?
SIMON
> The leg is gone. The rest looks... solid enough. But look at what fell out.
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
> (A whisper)
> What... is that... is that a badger?
SIMON
> It appears to be. A badger butler.
Agnes leans in, touching the velvet vest.
AGNES
> It has a pocket watch. Simon, look. It has a tiny pocket watch.
Simon sees the gold chain. He gives it a gentle tug. A dime-sized clock face emerges. Stuck at 4:20.
SIMON
> Arthur. Arthur bought this. Someone made this, and Arthur paid money for it.
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.
AGNES
> (Voice wavering)
> He looks... he looks like Uncle Gerald at your wedding.
The dam cracks.
The image of her pompous, red-faced Uncle Gerald stuffed into a tuxedo superimposes over the badger. The resemblance is uncanny.
SIMON
> (Choking)
> The vest... it’s... it’s velvet.
A strange, high-pitched GIGGLE escapes Agnes. It sounds rusty.
AGNES
> He’s holding a candlestick. Like he’s going to show us to our rooms.
SIMON
> In the badger hotel.
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.
AGNES
> It’s... it’s just so... dignified.
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.
AGNES
> (Shrieking)
> It’s so ugly! It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen!
SIMON
> (Yelling, holding the badger up)
> He kept it! In the wardrobe! For special occasions!
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.
AGNES
> (Whispering)
> God. I needed that.
SIMON
> Me too.
> (Looking at the badger)
> We should keep him. Put him on the mantelpiece.
AGNES
> Don't you dare.
> (A genuine, tired smile)
> Maybe the guest room. Scare the hell out of visitors.
Simon chuckles. The air feels lighter.
AGNES
> Help me up.
She extends a hand. Simon takes it. Her grip is strong. He hauls her to her feet.
AGNES
> Okay. The wardrobe is down. The badger is liberated. Where is this damn access panel?
Simon turns to the wall that was hidden. There, peeling and painted over, is a small plywood door.
SIMON
> There. The heart of the beast.
Agnes walks to it, hesitates.
AGNES
> Simon?
SIMON
> Yeah?
AGNES
> Thanks. For... you know. Moving the thing.
SIMON
> You pushed too.
She nods, looking at the small door.
AGNES
> What do you think is in there? More badgers?
SIMON
> God, I hope not.
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
> Ready?
AGNES
> No. But let's do it anyway.
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.