The flashlight's beam stopped at the edge of the clear plastic it ought to have been shining out from, and nothing was visible beyond but the living darkness. Cayce could only see herself, her own arm reaching out. The air was breathable, but it was rather like plunging one's head into blood-warm water: there was a faint feeling of pressure, and the silence cut off most of the sound.

If she turned back to look at the opening from this vantage point, she would see the room behind her hanging like a picture on an absent wall, a round opening in the darkness that seemed, paradoxically, dimmer than what surrounded her. Oddly, though, the portions of Psyche's arms which ought to have been poking through weren't visible at all; they disappeared as they reached the darkness.

Meanwhile, the sonic screwdriver was having a bit more luck than the other devices had, picking up a reading with relative ease. What it was reporting was not so much a difference in spacetime, however, as a density, the "normal" spacetime readings for the park, such as they were, actually radiating out from here.

((Last paragraph is profoundly crappy science, I know. Tried to come up with better physics-based metaphor: failed.))