Round 5 Transcript

Jeane Cromwell stands in the front sitting room, the heavy brass lamp held like a weapon. The rain outside beats a relentless rhythm on the windows, turning the glass into sheets of black water. I know someone's here. The air feels wrong—too thin, too still. That back door was ajar when I came downstairs. She moves toward the kitchen, her footsteps quiet on the hardwood floor. Come out. I'm not afraid of you.

The house feels wrong. I'm not alone. Rain drums the roof, hiding sounds, but something moved downstairs—the creak of floorboards under weight. The lamp base is solid in my hand. Fireplace poker next to it. The window shows only trees and dark. No lights on. Better that way. The phone line is dead. Cut. Before I got here. By who? Jeane? Or something else in the house? The kitchen has knives. Distance matters. Don't let them close.