Sal grimaces. The last thing he wants to do is attract the not-so-gentle giant's attention, but he can't just let this alone.
He takes a deep breath and heads into the bloodstained room, trying to ascertain if the man is still alive, or in any state to be helped. If he is, he risks a whisper, "You still with us buddy?"
Medicine vs 65% to check his vitals/injuries:
The man whirls to look at you, eyes blood-shot and confused by your presence. His hands are bloody messes, his fingertips seemingly abrased to the bone - the blood everywhere seems to be his own. His hands, which he holds in front of his face, trying to shield himself from your flashlight, are showing early signs of an infection.
He begins to panickedly whisper as you stare at his wretched frame.
"Cast a cold Eye
On Life, on Death.
Horseman, pass by!"
His seeming recitation ended, he begins whimpering to complement his cowering.
Sal recoils and feels a bit of bile begin to rise. His profession came with a certain resistance to gore, but this place was trying to even the most jaded.
"O-okay," he says, aiming the flashlight's beam away, as much for his comfort as the wretched man's.
Your mind pauses for a moment at the man's words, twisting them back and forth, trying to place them. After a moment, your mind settles upon... undergrad? Specifically, undergraduate literature class? The bit in question is a quote from Under Ben Bulben, one of W.B. Yeats' later poems, and if your memory serves you correctly, sits on Yeats' tombstone. Mostly, you're surprised you remember such an arcane bit of knowledge.
As this bit of esoteric knowledge assails you, the man has regained his sight, as you've moved the flashlight beam. "You're not it, you're not him," he says brokenly. "Are you here for me? Who are you?" The man's voice becomes more normal as he speaks, practically sounding sane by the time the last question makes it's way out of him. He's clearly frightened, but covered in blood in a dark room? That's to be expected.
"No," Sal blurts without thinking. "I'm a visitor. I just want to know a bit about what's... going on here." It seems strange to be conversing with the individual - in a remarkably fine mental state for his physical condition.
"Who were you expecting?"
"It, or him - one and the same, now," the man says cryptically. "And then the Angel of Mercy, the Reaper, Hades... Call it what you will. I brought it here, and I can only pray that it will bring me there..." The man starts to sob brokenly, curling over his knees, wrapping his bloody hands around them.
"What do you mean, you brought him here?" Sal says. Though it all still seems to be hoo-doo nonsense, somebody believes it, and that belief is dangerous.
Then, there was the thing that took Bobby...
"I want to help," he not-quite-lies. "I just need to know more. Lots of peo- lots of... strange things have happened around here, and if I can piece it all together I can..." he trails off as he realizes he's not sure he could do much, except save the police some detective work.
"Just pull yourself together," he says as soothingly as possible, taking a few steps forward, careful to avoid shining the light at the other man. "Tell me what you know." Even as he says it he doubts the man, clearly disturbed, will be of any help.
The man sits quietly for a moment, suddenly frightfully still. His voice is suddenly stronger, though hollow and empty.
"I called it, and I made the door but when I saw it I couldn't help it anymore. The other one's helping it now. It's all his fault. Now we'll all die."
He resumes rocking now, but not the panicked, frenzied rocking - a slow, deliberate oscillation.