My flashlight revealed only dull stone in the corner from which the sound came. I glanced at Georgie, who seemed frozen in shock. I exhaled.
In the space between breaths, the silence became complete. Suddenly, I was aware of just how total it was. The distant dripping of water from stalactites had ceased. The muffled conversation of other tourists far behind us were gone. My own shallow breath was the only sound in that alcove. Even Georgie made no sound.
I turned to her. She was still frozen. No, not frozen. Nothing in her posture was stiff or restrained.
She was simply still. Lips half parted, hand barely raised, eyes unfocused.
"Georgie," I whispered, "I think we should go."
She didn't even blink. There was no sign in her face or body that she was aware of my voice. I took her left hand in both of mine. It moved with mine, but she didn't look at me. I raised my voice.
"Georgie, snap back, girl. Don't do this, you're creeping me out."
I had to push my words through the stillness as through sand. I choked. My voice broke. Tides of panic surged. When I released Georgie's hand, it hovered, relaxed, where I left it go.
That next, final crunch of gravel sounded at my left. It had no echo.
