Round 6 Transcript

I move toward the kitchen doorway slowly, holding the iron poker across my body like a blade. The rain outside is a steady drumbeat on the roof, covering any sound I make. The lamp's glow doesn't reach this far into the hall—everything beyond the doorway is darkness. That creak came from down here. Someone's in the house. The air is different now, carrying a sharp edge underneath the woodsmoke and damp smell—a chemical tang that makes my teeth ache. Gunpowder. I can feel my heartbeat thudding in my ears as I step into the kitchen. The room is mostly dark except for the windows showing the black woods outside. No movement that I can see. But the basement door is open now—a crack of deeper darkness. The sound came from down there. Someone's answering my call by getting ready. I take a breath and raise my voice, sharp and certain: 'I know you're here. Come out or I'm calling the police.' Silence answers me. Then a faint sound—something heavy being moved downstairs. They're not leaving. They're getting comfortable. The phone on the kitchen wall is within reach—the cord is long enough for me to back into the living room if I need to. But that's the same direction as the stairwell. I don't want them coming up while I'm trapped by a cord. The knife block is on the counter—four blades, the largest one big enough to use as an actual weapon. But it's all the way across the room and grabbing it would be noisy. My eyes stay on that basement door crack while my fingers find the heavy ceramic ashtray on the counter. I slide it closer, pick it up. It's heavy, solid. A good throw. Then I step toward the basement door, holding the poker ready with both hands, the ashtray tucked under my arm.

The floor creaked again—closer this time, coming from under the stairs. Someone was moving down there, slow and deliberate. I stood in the dark kitchen with a drawer full of knives, the iron poker heavy in my hand, and waited. The house smelled like wet earth and something else now, something sharp underneath. Gunpowder maybe. Or worse. I moved toward the stairwell, keeping my back to the wall, and listened. Footsteps on the basement floor below. Definitely not my imagination. Whoever it was, they weren't trying to be quiet anymore. That meant they knew I was here, or didn't care if I knew. Neither option was good. The wooden chair by the kitchen table caught my eye—a heavy, solid thing. I grabbed it, carried it to the top of the stairs, and waited. If whoever was down there came up, I'd drop the chair down the stairs behind them, block their escape route, and have a clear shot while they tried to climb over or around it. Simple. Efficient. The footsteps stopped. Silence filled the house, thick and heavy. Then, slow and steady, they started climbing the stairs. One step at a time. I tensed, ready to throw the chair.