The Crowne Plaza Glasgow looms over the River Clyde, its once-stately facade now smeared with shadows that seem to writhe like the water below. Guests speak in hushed tones of flickering lights and an unsettling chill that prickles the skin, as if unseen fingers brush against their necks, leaving behind a lingering dread. In the stillness of the night, the hotel's halls echo with whispers of long-forgotten guests, their sorrow and rage steeped into the very walls-each creak and sigh a chilling reminder that some spirits refuse to rest.

The air in The Merchant City Inn is thick with whispers of the 18th century, where shadows cling to the walls as if remembering a time when life was snuffed out too soon. Guests have reported the unsettling sensation of unseen eyes prying into their souls, accompanied by the faint echoes of laughter and weeping that seem to seep from the very stones. Yet, what chills the bones most are the moments when objects drift lazily across the room, unsettlingly reordering themselves, as if the inn itself relishes the unease of those too fragile to confront its dark legacy.

The Hilton Glasgow stood like a weary sentinel, its concrete facade betraying whispers of the past that flickered in the corners of dimly lit hallways, where shadows danced with a life of their own. Guests often found themselves ensnared in a chilling embrace of cold spots, punctuated by the distant echo of footsteps and soft murmurs that slithered through the empty corridors, as if the walls themselves were alive with untold stories. In the bar, where laughter once flowed freely, the ghostly figure of a long-forgotten patron lingered, waiting, and those who dared to stay too long often left with the unsettling feeling that something-or someone-had quietly watched them, hungry for the warmth that still ebbed from the living