In the heart of downtown Cleveland, The Hilton stands like a silent sentinel, its modern facade concealing a past soaked in shadows, where the echoes of laughter have twisted into disembodied whispers that linger in the stale air. Guests retreat to their rooms, only to be met with icy drafts that sweep through like phantom fingers, while the hollow sound of footsteps patters through empty corridors, a reminder that some presences never truly leave. Those brave enough to close their eyes at night find themselves unsettled, the walls seemingly whispering secrets of an era long gone, leaving them to wonder - who, or what, is sharing their ghostly slumber?

Beneath the polished sheen of The Ritz-Carlton in Cleveland, a chill creeps through the opulent halls, whispering secrets of a bygone era. Guests have reported the unsettling sensation of being watched, their eyes drawn to a ghostly figure in formal attire, gliding mournfully by the ballroom, as if trapped in a waltz with the shadows of their own despair. And at night, when the echoes of laughter fade and silence descends, the clatter of phantom footsteps fills the air, leaving an icy draft that seems to breathe life into the very walls-a reminder that some guests never truly check out.

The Glidden House looms on its quiet street like a brooding specter, its once-grand facade now shadowed by the weight of a century's sorrow. Inside, the air hangs heavy with the whispers of those long departed-guests have seen fleeting apparitions in the corners of their vision, their hollow eyes filled with unfulfilled longing, while doors creak open and shut, seemingly drawn by a power that knows just how to toy with the living. And in the chill of the night, where cold spots bloom like dark flowers, the faint echo of laughter is often replaced by a silence so deep it unravels the very fabric of sanity, leaving those who linger to wonder what truly awaits them when the sun goes down.