Round 5 Transcript

The silence after that grunt is worse than the sound itself. I can hear my own breathing now, too loud in my ears. The poker feels warm in my hand from gripping it so hard. I back up until my shoulders hit the wall by the fireplace—at least I'll know where the wall is if they rush me. My eyes are adjusted to the dark but that doesn't help much against someone who knows the house better than I do. 'Last chance,' I call out, trying to sound threatening instead of scared. 'Come out or I call the police.' The footsteps stop. For a second, everything goes still. Then—movement. Fast. Multiple footsteps now, coming from the kitchen toward the hall where I am. Too many steps for one person. I freeze, unable to tell if they're getting closer or just moving around. My fingers tighten on the poker grip until my knuckles ache. The lamp stays dark—either they haven't found the switch yet or they don't want the light either way. I slide sideways along the wall toward the back door in the kitchen, keeping my eyes on where the hall entrance should be. If I can get to the knives in the drawer or even just outside... The footsteps stop again, right at the edge of the hallway. I can hear breathing now, shallow and controlled—not panicked like mine. Whoever this is, they're not scared. That makes it worse.

The sound came from the kitchen—definite, wrong. Not something the old house makes. The shadow on the wall wasn't static anymore. It moved when I moved my light. That means it's alive and aware. Something human-shaped, maybe hiding behind the counter. Or waiting in the dark with a knife. The window over the sink is cracked open—could be how it got in. Rain's still falling, obscuring outside visibility. The lamp on the side table feels heavy in my hand. I could throw it through the glass to create noise, or smash it against the wall as a distraction while I move. But that'd give away my position in this room. The poker is better—silent, reach-extender. I take two steps toward the hallway, poker held ready, and swing the iron tool in a slow arc around the corner, striking out blind into the darkness where the sound came from. The metal connects with something hard—definitely bone, maybe shoulder or arm. A grunt escapes, low and male, followed by the heavy thud of someone hitting the counter and sliding down. I don't see them clearly yet, just a shape on the floor in the gloom. But I heard that sound. And now they're down. One less variable to manage immediately. The poker is still in my hand, ready for whatever comes next.