The Rosewood Hotel Georgia looms like a forgotten specter from 1927, its lavish facade now a mere veneer over the weary bones of the past. In the dimly lit ballroom, the whispers of a ghostly figure swirl like dust motes, and cold spots cling to the air, glacial against the warmth of the living; those who linger too long feel the weight of unseen eyes, as if the very walls themselves recall secrets that should never be spoken aloud. Guests have learned to tread lightly-each creak of the floorboards an echo of long-dead laughter, each shadow a reminder that some memories refuse to stay buried, lurking just beyond the veil of reality.

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 Fairmont Empress Hotel, a grand relic of 1908, looms like a forgotten specter over the mist-laden harbor, its opulent facade belying the sinister whispers of past guests lost within its walls. As the sun dips below the horizon, a ghostly woman in white glides through dimly lit corridors, her mournful sigh echoing against the flickering lights, while icy drafts seem to seek the warmth of the living, leaving cold spots that linger like a shiver down the spine. Those who dare to linger too long have learned that the past does not rest easy here; it curls around the unsuspecting like a shroud, whispering secrets that chill the marrow and ensnare the soul.