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

Beneath the sleek facade of the Toronto Marriott Bloor Yorkville, whispers of a bygone era slither through the air like the ghosts of forgotten guests, their laughter twisted into hollow echoes that linger in the dank corners. Cold spots bloom unexpectedly, as if the very building itself exhales a shiver, while shadowy figures flit just beyond the edge of your vision, blurring the line between the living and the lost. Here, every creak of the floorboards and the hum of the elevator feels like an invitation, but heed the warning: not all who enter the hotel leave with their souls intact.

The Auberge Saint-Gabriel loomed like a specter from the past, its weathered beams whispering secrets of the 17th century; a place where laughter once mingled with the clinking of glasses, now suffocated by the weight of lingering shadows. Guests often felt the chill of unseen eyes upon them, while echoes of laughter twisted into sorrowful sighs, and an unseen hand would send silverware skittering across worn tables as if the ghostly figure of its former owner sought to reclaim what had once been his domain. This was a hotel where the very air thickened with an unshakeable dread, reminding patrons that they were never truly alone, and the dead had an unsettling way of making their presence felt.