The Bangalore Palace loomed like a forgotten sentinel beneath the oppressive weight of the moonlight, its turrets clawing at the night sky, whispering secrets of a bygone era. Guests who dared to wander its echoing halls often found themselves ensnared by the chill of an unseen presence, the soft rustle of silk slipping past them, while ghostly silhouettes of long-departed royals flickered in the corners of their vision, beckoning with a palpable sorrow. As the walls seemed to breathe with the sighs of a hundred restless souls, an unsettling unease settled into the bones of those brave enough to stay, leaving them haunted by the sensation that they were never truly alone.

The St. Mark's Hotel loomed like a forgotten specter amid the bustling streets of Bangalore, its peeling plaster whispering secrets from the 1980s, while the air inside crackled with a static tension that gnawed at the spine. Guests often spoke in hushed tones of the woman in white, her sorrowful figure drifting down the dimly lit corridors, accompanied by the unsettling flicker of lights that seemed to pulse with a life of their own, as if the very walls conspired to keep her restless spirit company. Those who dared to linger too long felt an icy breath on their necks, a silent warning that sometimes, the past is not meant to be disturbed-and some guests never left at all.

Beneath the opulent facade of The Taj West End, a sinister symphony plays, the echoes of laughter twisted into mournful whispers that slither through the moonlit corridors. Guests have been known to wake to the ghostly strains of an invisible pianist, their hearts quickening with each note, while unseen footsteps tap softly on the marbled floors, trailing eerily behind them as they wander through the shadow-laden hallways. In the gardens, where rose petals wither in the chill of an eternal twilight, spectral figures drift, their hollow eyes promising that some histories refuse to fade, leaving unlucky visitors haunted by a sliver of something not quite of this world.

The Leela Palace looms like a faded ghost of the British Raj, its opulent facade a mere veneer over the chill that seeps into its walls; guests shudder as cold spots coil around them like invisible serpents. In the hushed corridors, where the whispers of history cling like dust, shadowy figures flit just beyond the corner of their vision, leaving only a frigid breath of dread in their wake. Those who dare sleep within its confines often awaken, not to the warm embrace of dawn, but to an unsettling emptiness, as if the very air around them mourns unseen histories too dark to comprehend.