Round 8 Transcript

I stand in the kitchen shadow with the heavy lamp base ready, my back pressed against the counter. The knives on the cutting board are a contingency plan I pray I don't need—the lamp is my only real weapon. The groaning floorboard sound comes again from the hall. Closer. Definitely not my imagination. I don't recognize that footprint pattern either. She's in the house now, moving slow and deliberate. The back door is right here but running out might leave me exposed across open ground—better to stay inside where I control the angles. I edge toward the kitchen doorway, staying low, the lamp held tight. The hall opens up from this vantage point. If she turns this corner, I'm committed.

The front sitting room feels wrong—too open, too visible through the windows. I move immediately toward the kitchen, where solid walls offer more cover and the knife drawer is already in mind. The heavy brass lamp comes off the side table with my left hand, its base a blunt instrument if needed. Rain pounds the glass outside, covering any noise I make on the hardwood floor. The house breathes darkness around me.