Chapter 1: The Drip Nobody Sees

My colleague next door, Lauren Pierce, is beautiful, fit, and always impeccably dressed—today, she’s in a sharp navy blazer with her chestnut hair in a sleek ponytail—but she’s a bit obsessive about cleanliness. Her cubicle is decorated with a tiny Yankees pennant, and her laptop is covered in stickers from every major tech conference in the city.

She’s the type who wipes down her keyboard with Purell wipes twice a day and keeps a jumbo bottle of Purell hand sanitizer at her desk, always within easy reach. Even her favorite travel mug—a white ceramic one with a faded Red Sox logo—shines like it just came out of the dishwasher, every single morning. Sometimes I joke that she could spot a dust bunny from a mile away, and she just laughs, but I’m not entirely kidding.

One morning, I got to work early—maybe 7:45, the office still quiet except for the hum of the vending machine—and saw Lauren storming out of the building maintenance office. The hallway was covered in that ugly gray industrial carpet, and the maintenance office door had a faded sticker for a 1998 Super Bowl party. Lauren was clearly upset after what looked like a heated argument.

She was clutching her phone so tightly her knuckles had gone white, and her lips were pressed into a thin, angry line. Even from halfway down the hall, I could see her eyes were a little red, like she’d either been fighting back tears or biting her tongue so hard she almost screamed. She paced in a tight circle, fidgeting with her phone, glancing at the office door as if daring someone to come out.

I asked her what happened, trying to sound casual, but she just let out a frustrated sigh and snapped, “Those guys must be blind—dirty water is obviously dripping from the ceiling, but they keep insisting it’s impossible.”

"Dirty water dripping?" I thought, blinking in disbelief. I glanced up at the ceiling tiles above us, but didn’t see any stains; everything looked perfectly clean. Was she imagining things, or did I just miss something obvious?

Not a mark, not even a faint shadow on the white ceiling tiles. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting that harsh, sterile glow that makes everything look even more pristine. I even squinted, just in case, but nothing looked out of place. The air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and overworked AC.

Lauren then told me the whole story. She’d stayed late the night before, working overtime, and just as she was packing up, dirty water suddenly dripped from the ceiling. It was fishy, foul-smelling, and, worst of all, sticky to the touch.

She described it with a shudder, her face twisting in disgust. “It was like someone dumped a bucket of swamp water right above my head,” she said, rubbing her arms as if she could still feel it. “It stank—like old fish and rotten eggs—and it was sticky. I almost gagged.” As she remembered, she took a step back, covering her mouth, eyes squeezed shut like she might actually retch.

Lauren’s nose wrinkled, her lips curled, and she kept swallowing hard, as if fighting to keep her breakfast down. Her shoulders hunched, and she hugged herself, rubbing her arms like she was trying to scrub the memory away. I could almost see the memory crawling across her skin.

For someone as sensitive to cleanliness as her, this was obviously unbearable. She looked like she wanted to crawl out of her own skin.

Lauren’s whole vibe was off—she was jittery, pacing in place, and kept wiping her hands on a tissue even though they were already spotless. She avoided eye contact, glancing at her phone, then the ceiling, then the floor, like she was searching for an escape route. If anyone in the office would lose their mind over a mystery stain, it’d be her, hands down.

So she immediately called the property maintenance department to check. Old Jerry from maintenance just glanced up twice, then brushed her off, saying there were no pipes above, just solid concrete—there was absolutely no way water could drip down. He even accused Lauren of making a mountain out of a molehill, acting like she was wasting his time.

Old Jerry’s been here forever—always wearing a faded Cubs baseball cap, coffee mug in hand, and a crossword puzzle tucked under his arm. He barely looked up, just gave her that “ma’am, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill” shrug, and went right back to his puzzle. “There’s nothing up there but concrete. No pipes, no vents. You must’ve imagined it,” he said, not even bothering to stand up.

Lauren lost her temper and got into a full-blown shouting match with him. She doesn’t raise her voice often, but when she does, everyone in the hallway perks up. A couple of the other maintenance guys poked their heads out of the break room, exchanging looks and smirking behind their coffee cups. The whole floor probably heard her call Jerry out for being lazy—I wouldn’t have wanted to be in his shoes.

I tried to comfort her, telling her not to take it to heart; the maintenance guys always try to dodge extra work whenever they can. I even offered to bring her a donut from the downstairs deli, just to help her cool down. “Don’t let it get to you,” I said. “You know those guys—they’d rather argue than change a lightbulb.”

Even though I stood up for Lauren, I also wondered if she might’ve just been tired and imagined it. I wanted to have her back, but part of me thought maybe she’d just been spooked by working late. It wouldn’t be the first time someone thought they saw something weird after midnight in this place.

Our office building was custom-built three years ago by Ridgeway Construction. I went with the boss on two inspections during construction. Everything—inside and out—is poured concrete. Even if someone kept a tank of fish upstairs, water wouldn’t seep down, and there definitely aren’t any pipes in that area.

I remembered standing with my boss in a hard hat, peering at blueprints and half-finished walls. We’d checked every corner—no plumbing, no gaps, just thick concrete and rebar. It was built solid, like a Chicago high-rise, no shortcuts, no cheap materials.

More importantly, the floor above us is the boss’s office, designed and built with top-notch quality. I’ve worked here for five years and never heard of any leaks.

The boss is a stickler for quality—he once made us repaint the break room because the shade of blue was "off by a Pantone." If there was even a hint of a leak, he’d have the whole building torn apart to fix it, no questions asked.

But Lauren was convinced, so I didn’t argue further—just told her to keep an eye out during the day. “If anything weird happens, let me know. I’ll back you up.”

That was the end of it for the moment. I got busy with work. It was nearly the end of the month and the quarter, so there was plenty to handle. By the time I looked up, it was already noon, and my inbox was overflowing.

My phone wouldn’t stop ringing, and the day disappeared in a blur of spreadsheets and calls. I barely noticed the time passing until my stomach started growling, reminding me I hadn’t eaten.