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In Block B, Jared Gibbs slept with his pillow over his head, blocking out the sounds. The sounds could be any number of things from birdsong to whispers, but mostly they were bloody shrieks which formulated themselves into the never-welcome sound of a Siren's scream: one that repulsed the mind but attracted curiosity, one that you know you cannot resist, yet know that your shitting yourself deep inside.
Jared dared to resist.
Sometimes he could see blood drip from the ventilation duct on the ceiling. Only at night could he see it: the thick red substance oozing through the ceiling and pooling onto the floor with a drip as constant as the swinging of a pendulum, a metronome of death boring deep into Jared's mind and leaving only a hollow, twisted husk as the remains.
He never got the chance to show the pool of blood to anyone. He went down to breakfast, and by the time he returned, the pool was gone.
Jared Gibbs was delusional, they said. They said he was crazy, but he was sure that the cleaning cupboard was always ajar when he returned.
He knew as he was the cleaner.
The previous cleaner.
Because he was crazy.
Delusional.
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