“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 aglass 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.
Shawn brings the entire suitcase to the bed. When she sets it down, a puff of dust rises around it. She takes the small bag, undoes the snap, and then upends the contents onto the quilt. Jewelry tumbles onto the bed—a tarnished gold necklace; a handful of rings, their stones dull but possibly valuable trinkets from another life, another era.
“Holy shit, is this real?” Tech asks. Truthfully, I don’t know—but my heart is racing at the possibility of finding jewelry that could be worth something.
Would it be stealing if we sold it to help save the Shack? I’ll debatethe morality later. For now, I start to sift through the jewelry.
From what we can tell—and we are certainly no experts—the stones seem legit. Then again, I’ve never seen a real diamond before.
I let the jewelry slide through my fingers, before turning back to the suitcase I was working on earlier. My grip tightens on the ashtray. I need to know what else we’ll find. It all feels addictive and dangerous now, like a bank heist, but instead we’re in a decrepit old murder hotel.
One hit, then another. Finally, the lock gives with a sharp crack, snapping open. Inside the suitcase is more clothing, seeming to belong to a man. It is just as well preserved, locked up for decades and protected from the elements. I unclip one of the side compartments.
There, tucked beneath an elastic band, is a note. Faded ink on brittle paper, a whisper from the past. Beside it, an emerald ring, delicate and small. I lift the note carefully. The handwriting is slanted, elegant:
As beautiful as your eyes, my sweet Marigold. Love, Powell Landis.
My heart skips. This is intimate. This wasn’t supposed to be forgotten. I glance at the other suitcase on the bed, and I imagine Marigold and Powell were here together. That he had planned to give this to her. Unlike the other items, discarded and forgotten, this was meant to be found.
My skin is buzzing with possibilities. There’s an entire hotel to explore, and if this is any indication, there are treasures everywhere. This place is untouched, which means so are its secrets.
“I’ll be back,” I tell the others, stepping into the hallway before they can argue.
The hallway stretches ahead of me, eerie in fractured daylight. A hole in the ceiling lets in weak beams of sunlight, illuminating the space in a hazy glow. Below, the main lobby is now a stagnant pool of standing marsh water, and loud drips from the roof hit the pool with a rhythmic and echoing splash.
Even in its decay, the hotel hums with history. The jewel-toned wallpaper,faded but intricate. The white piano in the corner, half sunken, its keys eaten away by time. The velvet couches, their deep reds and greens overtaken by mold.
I continue down the hall, still not seeing any obvious signs of a fire, and head to a room at the end. When I try the door, I’m surprised that it’s unlocked. I push it open with my palm, and then I’m stunned by what I see. Inside, the room is perfectly preserved.
Unlike the other room, this space isn’t abandoned. Instead, it feels like it’s been waiting for someone to return. The bedcovers are pulled back as if someone had just left. Although they’re clearly old, the sheets are not rotted. Sitting by the door is a suitcase, packed and ready to go.
Why did the guests leave everything behind if they had their bags ready? Or better yet, why not come back for their belongings?
The silence in the room presses in around me, thick and expectant. It’s suffocating in here. Something just doesn’t… well, it doesn’t feel right. My skin prickles as if I’m being watched, and I quickly check the door in case someone is standing there. But I’m alone.
I move toward the bedside table. When I open the drawer, I find it filled with papers, most of them rotted from the humidity. I take some of the pages out; but the first few crumple to shreds in my hand.
Stuck to the bottom of the drawer is a Polaroid picture, the white edges curling up. The photo is of a woman, young and beautiful. She stares past the camera, her expression unreadable. Next to her is a man with dark hair and a popped collar, his face blurred with movement and double exposure. An eighties villain in the flesh. But it’s not him who matters.
It’s her.
The way her eyes aren’t on him. The way she looks just past the frame, toward someone else. A sense of longing in her downturned eyes. She’s fascinating.
I flip the photo over but the back is blank. No names. No date.
