In the hushed corridors of The Renaissance Cincinnati Downtown Hotel, the whispers of its early 1900s origins rustle like forgotten memories, and flickering lights cast long, restless shadows that seem to dance with an eager malevolence. Guests have awoken to the soft creak of doors swinging open of their own accord, luring them into a chilling embrace of uncertainty, while ghostly apparitions flit between the walls, leaving only a suffocating silence in their wake. Its said that once you check in, you may never truly check out, for the hotels history is carved in sorrow, where the living often find themselves sharing their stay with the dead.

The Hilton Cincinnati Netherland Plaza looms like a specter from the past, its grandiose facade whispering secrets of a bygone era, where flickering lights dance in the corners of opulent ballrooms, casting long shadows that seem to breathe with life. Guests have reported fleeting glimpses of a figure in vintage clothing, her hollow gaze trailing them as they navigate the suffocating corridors, while the air thickens with the weight of whispered warnings and the prickling feeling of unseen eyes watching from the dark. In the still of the night, the haunting echoes of laughter morph into chilling cries, leaving an insidious reminder that not all who wander these halls have checked out.

The Phelps Hotel looms like a weary sentinel against the encroaching fog of Cincinnati's streets, its once-proud facade now a tapestry of peeling paint and whispered secrets. At night, the air grows thick with the echo of disembodied voices, the soft murmur of conversations long silenced, while shadowy figures flit through the dimly lit hallways, teasing the edges of human sight. Those who dare to linger find their hearts quicken, as if the very walls leer with a hunger for stories yet untold, leaving them to wonder just who-or what-else shares their room.