Round 4 Transcript

The house sits quiet in the woods. Rain taps a steady rhythm on the roof. Inside, everything is still—too still for how late it is. The upholstered chair in front of you faces the cold stone fireplace, empty. On the side table beside it: a brass lamp with a heavy base, a ceramic ashtray, and your house keys hanging from their hook.

The hall to the kitchen stretches out darkly to your left—knives there, a back door that leads onto the back porch. The stairwell rises into darkness behind you. Rain-streaked windows show only blackness outside. A floorboard creaks somewhere in the deep house, too soft for a draft or settling wood.

What do you do?

The house is wrong. The stillness feels unnatural—not quiet, but holding its breath. I shift in the chair facing the cold fireplace, fingers finding the heavy brass lamp base. Rain taps like warning code against the glass.

Something moved downstairs—definitely movement. The back door? Kitchen? Can't see from here. Rising feels exposed. Instead, I ease forward, angling to see past the newel post and down into shadows. Nothing visible yet. The stairwell is a dark throat waiting to swallow sound or motion. Every second stretches.

The house feels occupied by something that shouldn't be here. My skin crawls with certainty I don't want to name. This isn't exhaustion or paranoia; this is the wrongness my gut learned from the woods—the kind you don't survive twice without naming the predator first. The lamp base stays in one hand, fingers ready to bring it down if needed.

What's your next move?

I stand outside the house, pistol in hand, the other upon the door knob. I breath slowly, relaxed yet deliberate. I can hear faint movement from inside. Someone is home, and they seem to be alone. I press my mask firmly against my face, preparing to make my next move.