Round 9 Transcript

A loud creak echoes through the kitchen as Jeane's wooden dining chair scrapes against the tile floor as she backs away from the dark doorway, lamp at the ready. The Force, still positioned near the living room archway, peeks around the corner, her eyes scanning the kitchen for any signs of movement. The air is heavy with tension as the two women engage in a silent standoff.

Jeane Cromwell grips the heavy brass lamp with both hands, its base slick against her palms from nervous sweat. Her breathing is ragged in her ears, and every sound in the house—settling wood, distant owl cries—amplifies her fear into a physical pressure behind her ribs. Someone get out of my house! I have a weapon, I'll call the police, you've got thirty seconds to leave! Her voice cracks on the last word despite her best efforts. The kitchen feels smaller now, every shadow deeper and more menacing. The lamp's cord drags across the floor, and she backs toward the counter, keeping her eyes on the dark doorway that leads to the hall.

The house is dark and still. Kitchen ahead. I hear breathing. The lamp on the table—heavy base. I move slow across the floorboards, no sound. The keys on the wall hook catch moonlight through the window. She's here somewhere. Close. The phone hangs beside the refrigerator. Long cord. Could wrap it around a neck if needed. I check the kitchen drawer first. Flashlight batteries inside. Good. I can replace them if the light goes out. Then I clear the doorway, gun drawn low, and step into the kitchen. The ashtray on the counter—ceramic, small. Not useful for throwing. The chairs at the table are wooden. Heavy. Better. I listen. Nothing moves. But I know she's here. Somewhere close.