Drip. Drip. Drip.

Jack Handler blinked awake as something wet and warm dripped onto his head. Opening his eyes, he looked upward and could see, by the faint light of the lamp, a stain growing on the ceiling of the floorboards above him.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Jack winced away from the wet splash of liquid as it struck him upon the forehead once more and reached up, touching a hand to his face. He lifted his hand towards the light and saw the dark fluid on his fingertips glisten red.

Blood.

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