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. Noteven 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.
