Chapter Thirteen
—NOA
We found the Starline Hotel.
We found it just sitting in the marsh like a forgotten tomb, half sunk and rotting, its name barely legible on the plaque near the front.
STARLINE HOTEL. I trace my fingers over the letters to make sure it’s all real, the sign slick with moss.
It’s real. And one thing’s for sure—this place wasn’t burned to the ground like they say.
I swallow hard and glance up at the building.
It’s not as grand as I expected, not anymore.
Maybe once, before the Everglades swallowed it up.
I try to picture it back then—golden lights spilling out from windows, guests arriving via helicopter, their laughter curling in the warm, humid air. Now, all that’s left is decay.
The hotel stands three stories high, its edges blurred by overgrowth. The second and third floors still cling to some semblance of structure, but the first floor is partially submerged in the swamp. A thick, sludgy kind of quiet settles over the place, and it makes my skin prickle.
“I can’t believe it didn’t completely sink,” Shawn mutters beside me, tapping her toe against a rock. It slips into the water around the entrance of the hotel, and ripples spread and disappear into the murky depths.
Tech stands a few feet away, arms crossed, studying the wreckage like a problem that needs solving. I’m happy he convinced us to do this; I’m happy we all have a chance at redemption. Still… the air is thick with uneasiness.
Next to me, Jamie watches the tree line, his eyes scanning the branches overhead. Darting around like he’s half expecting something to lunge from the shadows.
I probably shouldn’t have told him the trees were listening.
“So how do we get in?” Shawn asks, impatient. “The lobby’s underwater, and I’m not swimming with alligators.”
We all go quiet, scanning the building for an answer. I can smell the scent of wet earth and mildew, and something else, something sharp and sour, like old wood left to rot.
“There.” Tech points to the side of the hotel.
An iron trellis, rusted and warped, clings to the wall like a broken rib cage. It stretches to a second-floor window, waiting there like a black hole straight into the unknown.
I don’t like it. Besides the fact that I hate heights and the dark, the trellis looks unstable, the metal stained red with rust and corroded in places. I open my mouth to say it’s a bad idea, but before I can, Tech grips the lowest rung. Testing it before confirming it’s solid.
I’m anxious as Tech starts to climb the trellis, flakes of rust scattering off the bars. The entire iron grid whines under his weight.
“Be careful,” I call instinctively, watching as he grips the bars, his forearms flexed.
Just as Tech looks back at me, one of the rungs breaks off under his sneaker, sending it soaring toward the ground and impaling itself into an overgrown planter. We all stare at it, and then at him.
“My bad,” he says.
“Try not to kill yourself!” Shawn calls up, waving. “Or us!”
“I will do my best,” he replies, a bit out of breath, and then he begins crawling up the trellis again.
I start to gnaw on the corner of my finger, and next to me, Shawn is shifting from one foot to the next. The sound of the metal grates on my nerves, whining and eerie as it echoes.
It feels like it takes forever, but when Tech finally reaches the window, Shawn and I exchange a look of relief. Tech loops his arm over the top of the trellis, and then leans forward to rub a section of dried mud off the glass. He cups his hand around his temple and peers inside. We’re all quiet.
After a long pause, Tech gives us an enthusiastic thumbs-up. Shawn claps, jumping up and down with excitement while Jamie bends to rest his hand on his knees, as if he’d been holding his breath.
Tech braces against the window, trying to pry it open. It doesn’t budge. After all this time—decades of rot and neglect—the lock still holds.
Tech exhales sharply, then shrugs off his shirt, exposing his back to the shadowed marsh. His skin is already slick with sweat, muscles tense as he wraps the fabric around his hand. Without hesitation, he pulls his arm back and slams his fist through the glass.
The sharp pop is followed by the brittle sound of the window shattering inward. I jump, and then step back as pieces of glass spray down like confetti. A few shards bounce off the ledge and fall to the water below, disappearing without a trace.
“You all right?” Tech calls, checking on us. His voice is too loud, too casual, in the silence. For the first time since we arrived, he looks scared. I wonder if the rumors of hauntings and spirits are feeling more real now that he’s so close.
I open my mouth to tell him to be careful, but before I can, he’s already climbing through the broken window, disappearing inside.
And then the marsh goes still.
I don’t mean quiet—I mean still. No buzzing. No croaking. Not even the slosh of water against the hotel’s crumbling foundation. It’s like the entire Everglades is waiting.
Beside me, Jamie is flushed, damp hair sticking to his forehead as sweat rolls down his neck. He’s trying to play it cool, but his fingers twitch at his sides, and I can see his throat bob as he swallows.
I don’t blame him.
If I were him—following a group of Chasers into an abandoned, half-sunken hotel with a murder rumor attached to it? Yeah. I’d be nervous as hell too.
Minutes stretch on, the humid heat pressing in from all sides.
How long would it take for the coast guard to get here?
Before I can ask Shawn, Tech’s head suddenly pops back through the broken window, his eyes bright with something electric.
“You guys have to check this out!” he shouts.
I groan out my relief as Shawn scrambles forward to claw her way up the rusted iron trellis. When I turn to Jamie, he holds out his hand to tell me to go ahead of him. My heart is pounding, but the worry is replaced with excitement.
Tech found something. I could hear it in his voice.
I grab on to the metal bar, the texture rough under my fingers, grainy with corrosion. I climb, and above me Shawn slips through the broken window with ease. I move in next, careful not to cut myself, and step into the room.
When I straighten, I’m struck by how cold the air is. Freezing in comparison to the oppressive heat outside. I press my hand under my nose to block the overwhelming smell of mildew, rotting fabric.
I realize that I don’t hear Jamie. I poke my head back out the window, appreciating the fresh air even as the humidity presses against my skin again. Jamie is still on the ground.
“You coming?” I ask him.
He hesitates, glancing around at the trees. “I could,” he says, voice lighter than the way his fingers flex at his sides, “or I could wait out here and keep watch.”
“Sounds like an excuse.” I smile, but if I’m honest, I sort of wish I’d stayed outside with him. The feeling inside this hotel is nothing short of eerie.
Jamie exhales, rubbing his palm along the back of his neck. “Excuse?” he repeats. He pauses and then nods. “Maybe a little,” he admits. “But if this place is as messed up as you all say, someone should keep an eye out. You never know who else might come looking for it.”
A shiver runs over my arms. You never know who else might be here already.
I duck back inside, and as I turn, the weight of the room settles over me.
It’s dark, the only light coming from the open window and the shaky glow of Tech’s phone flashlight.
Shawn turns her light on and I do the same, but even with those, the shadows stretch long against the peeling wallpaper, shifting as we move.
The air, thick and wet, sticks in the back of my throat.
The bed in the center of the room is still made, the quilt thin and rotting. The walls, once patterned with delicate flowers, are stained and peeling in long, curling strips. Mold spreads up from the floor and expands like creeping fingers.
My stomach twists.
Tech moves toward the closet, his beam of light sweeping across a row of discolored dresses still hanging from rusted hooks. The sight of them—untouched, waiting—makes something cold coil deep in my chest. On the floor beneath them, stacked in a careless heap, are suitcases.
“Help me get these open,” Tech says.
I kneel, my hands hovering over a blue suitcase.
The pressed leather is dry and cracked, the latch firmly locked despite the years.
I grab a glass ashtray from the bedside table, my fingers slick against the smooth surface, and bring it down hard.
I pause when the lock doesn’t open on the first try.
It’s strange how easy it feels to break into someone’s personal belongings.
But instead of guilt, I’m overwhelmed with anticipation.
These things are a moment frozen in time, a clue to what happened that night in the 1980s.
The person in this room clearly left in a hurry, and because of that, maybe they left behind a piece of the story.
Left behind something that can finally tell us the truth.
With a sharp breath, I lift the ashtray and slam it against the lock again. A crack echoes through the stale air. Another hit. Then another. And just as the latch starts to bend, Shawn’s voice cuts through the room.
“Jackpot,” she says.
Tech and I turn just as she unfolds the suitcase in front of her on the floor.
Inside is a stack of neatly folded and surprisingly well-preserved eighties-style dresses—brightly colored, almost out of a time capsule.
On the other side, tucked under the strap, is a small sequined bag.
The pearls on its clasp catch the glow of Shawn’s phone flashlight.
Shawn coos over the bag and runs her finger across the textured surface. “This is gorgeous,” she murmurs.
“See what’s inside,” Tech urges.