On The Case(s)

SFX: [Gentle, whimsical music fades in. A clock chimes eleven. Footsteps on creaky floorboards.]

NARRATOR (conspiratorial):
It was a morning like any other, except it wasn’t. For today, I, Horace P. Twaddle, was embarking on a perilous expedition: The Ascent Into The Attic. Mission objective: Retrieve the suitcases for our annual holiday to Bognor Regis. (Dramatic pause.) If I returned alive, I’d be a hero. If not, at least I’d avoid packing.

SFX: [Cupboard door creaks open. Faint, echoing wind. A cat yowls somewhere.]

MRS. TWADDLE (off, shrill):
Horace! Don’t forget the big suitcase! And the tartan one! And the one with the broken handle!

HORACE:
Yes, dear! (Muttering) She wants the tartan one. The tartan one wants me.

SFX: [Ladder unfolds with a metallic clang. Horace’s shoes squeak.]

HORACE (narrating):
The attic ladder loomed before me, a rickety stairway to heaven, or possibly Hull. I climbed, each rung groaning like a man who’s just been told he’s on salad for dinner.

SFX: [Climbing. Floorboards creak. A mysterious thud.]

HORACE:
Ah, the attic! Land of lost Christmas decorations, ancient tax returns, and the ghost of Aunt Mildred’s hat.

SFX: [Rustling. A box topples. Something scuttles.]

HORACE:
What’s this? A box labelled “Miscellaneous.” (Opens box.) Inside: one glove, a rubber duck, and a mysterious key. I pocket the duck for luck.

SFX: [Suitcase wheels squeak.]

HORACE:
Aha! The tartan suitcase! (Strains) Heavy as a hippo with a hangover. And here’s the big one—still bearing the scars of last year’s trip to Skegness.

SFX: [Sudden, ominous fluttering.]

HORACE:
What’s that? Bats? Moths? Or the spirit of last summer’s sunburn?

MRS. TWADDLE (off):
Horace! Have you found them?

HORACE:
Yes, dear! (Aside) If I don’t make it, tell the kettle I loved it.

SFX: [Clattering as Horace descends, suitcases thumping behind him.]

HORACE (panting):
Mission accomplished. Suitcases secured. Only minor injuries: one bruised ego, two stubbed toes, and a rubber duck with a new lease on life.

NARRATOR:
And so, dear listeners, the day was saved. The suitcases were ready, the holiday could begin, and the attic—well, the attic could wait until next year. Or the next century.

SFX: [Triumphant music. Rubber duck squeaks.]

HORACE:
Quack.

[Music swells. Curtain.]