The Hotel Elephant, with its peeling wallpaper and creaking floorboards, breathes an ancient sorrow that festers in the air, heavy and cold as the breath of the long-dead. Guests often find themselves startled awake by the echo of soft whispers and the fading rustle of period dresses, while frigid spots cling to skin like a forgotten lover's grip, reminding them that not all who wander these dim corridors are alive. Those who dare to linger often speak of a spectral woman, her sorrowful gaze tracing their every move, as if she is forever searching for a life left behind, a warning that perhaps sometimes its better to check out early.

At Pension Altstadt Weimar, the air is thick with an unsettling silence, broken only by the distant echoes of whispers that seem to slither under the heavy wooden doors and coil around sleeping guests like a shroud. Shadows flicker in the corners of the dimly lit hallways, and the walls pulse with the weight of forgotten dreams-visions of those who once wandered these creaking floors, their restless souls trapped in a nightmarish loop. Those who dare to close their eyes here often awaken to tales of sinister figures beckoning them from the gloom, leaving them to question whether the shadows are merely figments of tormented imagination or something far more malevolent that lingers just beyond the veil of sleep.

The Hotel Am Markt loomed like a specter from a forgotten time, its cracked walls whispering secrets of centuries past; shadows danced in the corners, and the air hung heavy with a palpable tension, as if the very fabric of reality twisted and creaked beneath the weight of unseen eyes. Guests reported the chilling echo of footsteps in the empty halls, always just behind them, and in the flickering candlelight of the common areas, ghostly figures flickered like dying embers, their mournful gazes still searching for what was lost. Those who dared to linger found themselves ensnared in a web of fear, where the line between the living and the dead blurred, leaving them haunted by the unshakable feeling that perhaps they

Hotel Zur Sonne loomed like a specter against the twilight sky, its once-inviting facade now marred by the whispers of those who had ventured too close to the veil that separated the living from the dead. Shadow figures flitted through its dimly lit corridors, their silent laughter curling through the air like ghostly tendrils, while the chill that swept through the rooms could wrap around your heart tighter than a vice. Guests who dared to dream within its walls often awoke not to the dawn, but to the sensation of unseen eyes watching, waiting, as the conversations of the long-departed echoed through their bones.