Round 8 Transcript

The brass lamp on the side table catches Jeane's eye—a heavy base that could easily crack a skull. The intruder's movement ceases momentarily, as if assessing the situation. The kitchen drawer handle rattles again, the metal scraping against the tile in a slow, deliberate motion.

Jeane Cromwell stands in the dark living room, clutching an iron poker with both hands. Her knuckles ache from the tight grip. The heavy brass lamp sits on the side table within arm's reach, its cool metal a comfort against her sweat-slick palm. Behind her through the hallway comes the sound of something large hitting the floor—a grunt of effort—and she knows it's him, he's here in the house with her. The floorboards creak under weight, moving closer, and she can hear his breathing now too, slow and steady despite having just made noise. Her own breath catches in her throat, each inhalation a visible tremor in the dim light from the streetlamps through the rain-streaked windows. She grips the poker tighter, muscles aching, and decides. 'I know you're there,' she calls out, voice surprisingly steady. 'Come out where I can see you, or I start breaking things until I find you.' The movement in the hallway stops completely. She waits, poker raised, every nerve screaming at her to run.

I hear the drawer open slowly—too slow for a normal person who just needs a fork. She's picking something out, or getting ready to throw things. The lamp on the side table catches my eye, heavy base. I pause, calculating distance and angle. The wood floor creaks under my weight, giving me away. She's in the kitchen now, armed with knives maybe, waiting for me to come to her. I don't play that game. I move instead toward the back door, let her hear me walking away from where she thinks I'll be. She'll move now, follow the sound, leave the kitchen. I want her out in the open where I can see her properly, not hiding behind counters with sharp objects. The floorboards complain again as I shift my weight, and I know she hears it too. We're both listening to the wrong things—her to my footsteps, me to the silence between them.