At Casa Andina Premium Puno, the stale air hangs thick with the whispers of the long-dead; a shiver runs down the spine the moment you step inside, as if the very walls exhale icy breaths, the chill clinging to your skin like a specters embrace. In the stillness of night, the echoes of laughter and soft, sorrowful cries drift through the hallways, barely discernible over the unsettling creaks and groans of the ancient building, luring the unsuspecting deeper into its sinister heart. Guests have learned, too late, that not all who linger by the shores of Lake Titicaca come in search of peace-some arrive with restless souls, hungry for a warmth that will never come.

Beneath the weight of its colonial facade, Hostal El Amigo clings to the shadows of Punos storied past, where the air whispers ancient secrets and the flickering lights seem to respond to unseen commands. Guests wander its dimly lit halls, feeling the weight of an unsettling presence that brushes against their skin like a cold draft, while strange noises punctuate the silence, echoing with the voices of the long departed. Each sleepless night amplifies the tension, leaving them to wonder if they truly are alone, or merely the latest to be ensnared by a history that refuses to be forgotten.

Hotel San Antonio loomed over Puno like a sentient monument, its once vibrant walls now cloaked in shadows that breathed with the whispers of ancient souls. In the flickering light of the dining area, spectral figures glided by, their hollow eyes fixated on the living, while icy drafts curled around the guests like the fingers of the dead, warning them of the sinister memories that lingered just beyond the veil. Those who dared to linger too long spoke of a suffocating dread that settled within, a haunting reminder that in this cursed sanctuary, even the walls seemed to remember, and they were not alone.

The once-grand Hotel Casona Plaza looms over Puno like a whisper from a forgotten age, its peeling paint and crumbling plaster echoing the tormented cries of the colonial ghosts trapped within. Flickering candlelight dances along the corridors, casting grotesque shadows that seem to breathe and shift, while the air thrums with the weight of unseen eyes watching from the corners. Guests speak in hushed tones of wandering apparitions and the chilling sensation of their belongings mysteriously rearranging themselves-a reminder that in this cursed sanctuary, its not the living who hold dominion.

Hotel La Hacienda Puno loomed against the mist-laden shores of Lake Titicaca, its crumbling facade whispering secrets of the indigenous souls who once roamed its halls. Guests often reported the spectral wails of women draped in traditional garments, their mournful melodies intertwining with the flickering candlelight, while shadows danced just beyond the corner of one's eye. Yet, it was the unsettling feeling of being watched, of lingering cold breath on the back of ones neck, that would drive even the most skeptical to retreat into the safety of their rooms, hearts pounding with the unshakeable dread that they were not alone.