Round 6 Transcript

The sound of the poker connecting with something hard—bone, maybe—echoes through the kitchen hallway, followed by the low male grunt and the crashing against the counter. The air vibrates with tension, every creak of the old house making Jeane jump. The flashlight beam on the wall now casts a jagged, ominous shadow, like the darkness itself is pressing in to conceal whatever is making the noise.

Jeane Cromwell stands in her dark living room clutching an iron fireplace poker with both hands, her knuckles white from the grip. The heavy brass lamp sits on the side table within arm's reach. Behind her through the hallway comes the sound of something large being moved in the kitchen—drawer handles rattling, wood scraping on tile.

That sound came from the kitchen. Definite, wrong. Not something the old house makes. She backs up until her shoulders hit the wall by the fireplace—at least she'll know where the wall is if they rush her. Her eyes are adjusted to the darkness now, but every shadow seems to have teeth. The poker feels warm in her hand from gripping it so hard.

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 eight feet up—escape route if necessary, but getting through the narrow kitchen first would be suicide.

The sound comes again—drawer handles banging against the frame this time. Jeane's heart hammers so hard she can feel it in her throat.

She raises the poker in a ready stance, her hands shaking but maintaining grip. The brass lamp on the table catches her eye—a heavy base that could easily crack a skull.

I hear something in the kitchen—the sound of a poker hitting something solid and the grunt of impact. It's not me. Someone else is here. The sound moves fast—too fast for fumbling. I don't know who it is, but they're armed now with something heavy and sharp. I can't let them corner me in the narrow kitchen with knives. I move silent through the living room, checking the windows—they're locked, no one's outside anymore. The house is small enough that if someone's in the kitchen, I can get to the back door before they do. I need to know what I'm dealing with first though. I pull one of the handguns and check the magazine—full. I move toward the hallway, pressing against the wall opposite the kitchen entrance where the light spills out. If whoever's in there moves this way, I'll see them before they see me.