Round 4 Transcript

I feel the weight of the lamp base in my hands, the cold brass smooth against my palms. The house is too quiet except for the rain hammering the windows like fists—impossible to hear anyone move over that sound. I take one slow step toward the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen, every muscle tense, and listen. There. Another floorboard groans under weight farther in, near the back door. Someone's here, inside my house. My fingers tighten around the lamp base—I'm going to have to face them, whoever it is.

The house is breathing darkly around me, every window a square of black glass showing only my own reflection. I move through the sitting room like a ghost trying to avoid its own echo—flashlight beam sweeping low and tight under furniture, checking corners, listening past the blood pounding in my own ears. The fireplace poker leans against the wall three feet away, heavy iron. I pick it up, feel the cold weight in my hand. Better than nothing. The kitchen door hangs open down the narrow hallway, a gaping mouth with sharp teeth inside. I inch toward it, back to the wall, and peer around the frame. Empty. Countertops clear except for the knife block. My eyes track the space between me and those blades while my fingers tighten on the poker grip. Somewhere in this house, she's hiding. Somewhere close.