The Prince George Hotel, a seemingly innocuous structure nestled in the heart of Halifax, breathes a quiet malevolence, its opulent facade masking the restless whispers of those who linger in its shadowed corridors. Flickering lights cast eerie silhouettes that dance mockingly on the walls as doors creak open and shut, inviting unsuspecting guests deeper into the hotels cold embrace, where the unsettling feeling of unseen eyes pierces through the dim air. For every visitor who steps through its threshold, a lingering dread hangs just out of sight, a reminder that the walls remember-and they are not alone.

The Travelodge Hotel & Conference Centre Regina looms like a weary specter among the flat plains, its faded neon sign flickering uncertainly beneath a shroud of overcast skies. Guests tread its echoing hallways with a palpable unease, feeling the cold breath of unseen presences lingering just at the edges of their vision, doors creaking open without a hand to guide them, as if the very walls conspire to draw them deeper into its ghastly embrace. Those who stay too long whisper of a nameless dread, a constant reminder that some shadows are not merely reflections of the past but vengeful harbingers of what lies yet to come.

The Park Town Hotel looms over the banks of the South Saskatchewan River, its once-vibrant facade now a faded echo of the 1960s, the brickwork whispering secrets to the wind. Guests have spoken of cold drafts that snake through the dimly lit hallways, and flickering lights that seem to pulse with a heartbeat of their own, while the eerie sensation of unseen hands grazes their skin, leaving an unsettling chill that lingers long after the night has passed. In the thick silence of the night, a suffocating dread coils around each unsuspecting visitor, as if the very walls harbor a hunger for the living, eagerly awaiting the next trembling soul to cross their threshold.

The Inn by the Bay stood resolute against the biting winds of St. John's, its weather-beaten facade whispering tales of a 19th-century past, where shadows danced in the flickering candlelight of faded halls. Guests, lured by its quaint charm, often found themselves shrouded in a bone-chilling embrace as they wandered into the older parts-where spectral figures materialized from the swirling mists, their mournful gazes frozen in time, and the air thickened with an unnatural chill that seeped deep into their bones. Those who dared to sleep beneath its creaking eaves spoke in hushed tones of restless nights, as the weight of unseen eyes pressed down upon them, reminding them that some histories are best

In the heart of Old Montreal, The Hotel William Gray stands like a silent sentinel, its antique bones creaking under the weight of centuries, where the echoes of 18th-century whispers swirl through the dimly lit corridors. Guests often awaken to the sensation of icy fingers caressing their skin, as if the very shadows have come alive, and the night's stillness is shattered by distant, pitiful murmurs that tread unbidden into the realm of the living. Here, the past clings to the walls like mold, and the gnawing dread that creeps into the spine leaves an indelible mark, serving as a chilling reminder that some guests never truly check out.

The Lord Beaverbrook Hotel stood like a brooding sentinel on the banks of the St. John River, its once-ornate facade now cloaked in shadows that whispered secrets of the past. Guests often found themselves ensnared by the unsettling chill that crept through the dimly lit corridors, where the spectral figure of Lord Beaverbrook himself seemed to roam, his eyes hollow and searching, while unseen hands toyed with their belongings, sending glasses skittering across polished surfaces with a disquieting laughter echoing in the silence. As night enveloped the hotel, the air thickened with an oppressive dread, leaving patrons to wonder: what unseen presence lingered just beyond the threshold of their sanity, waiting to reveal the horrors that dwelled

The Delta Hotels by Marriott Regina looms against the Saskatchewan skyline like a hulking, forgotten relic from the '80s, its sterile facade belying the restless whispers that echo from its shadowy hallways. Guests have reported the disembodied laughter of unseen children drifting through the empty banquet rooms, while sudden chills huddle in the corners, seeping through walls that seem to breathe with restless longing. Yet, as night sweeps in and the lights flicker dim, the hotels heart beats with a pulse that warns: not all who enter will leave untouched by the memories of those who linger, their voices threading through the dark like the chill of a winter wind.

The Olde Stone Inn crouches beneath the heavy fog of St. John's like a secretive sentinel of forgotten lives, where the laughter of long-dead patrons echoes in the chill-wrought corridors, teasing the eardrums of the living with tantalizing whispers. Shadows flit erratically, darting between doorways like nervous specters, while the unsettling symphony of disembodied voices reverberates through empty rooms, a chilling reminder that some guests check in but never check out. Each night, the air thickens with a palpable dread, as if the very walls exhale the sighs of those who once roamed freely, and the only assurance of safety lies in the knowledge that, though you may sleep, you are never

The Holman Grand Hotel looms over Charlottetown like a forgotten relic dressed in glass and steel, its sterile facade concealing a labyrinth of whispers and shadows. Guests speak of doors slamming with an angry finality, footsteps echoing down empty hallways, and fleeting glimpses of spectral figures that dance just beyond the periphery of their vision-a chilling reminder that some guests may never check out. Within its pristine walls, a sinister presence lurks, waiting patiently to weave itself into the very fabric of those who dare to spend a night.

The Windsor Arms Hotel, with its faded opulence and shadowed hallways, whispers secrets of its past, where the air grows inexplicably cold and the sound of soft weeping drifts through the velvet drapes. Guests swear theyve glimpsed a spectral woman in a vintage dress, her mournful gaze lingering just long enough to chill the marrow in their bones, while the walls seem to echo with the faintest footfalls of those long departed. Yet, as twilight descends, the laughter of the living mingles uneasily with the distant clatter of porcelain, a reminder that in this grand establishment, the past never truly leaves-and sometimes, it beckons you closer.