Call his name
You take the stone out of your pocket and press it to your lips for
the thousanth time. "Dammit, Dave," you're whispering into
it, your eyes getting blurry. "Don't leave me now, man."
Only at this moment, when you might really be parted from your best
friend, do you realize just how much you care about him. He really is
like a brother to you. You're wiping the tears that came unbidden off
your face and thinking about how you'd do anything to see him again
and tell him how you feel about him and ignoring the nagging feeling
that this might not be exactly the way real brothers feel about each
other.
"Dave! Dave!" you call in every direction, ignoring the
cobwebs and the strange sounds. You want him to scream again because
you want to be able to follow his voice, and you don't want him to
scream again because you never want to hear him in that kind of pain
again. Either way, nothing vaguely sounding like Dave calls to you.
After hours of fruitless searching, of opening doors and ignoring the
ghostly figures that retreat into the shadows upon being exposed to
light, you slump into a mouse-eaten armchair and drop your head into
your hands.
