The Cobo Bay Hotel looms like a specter against the relentless churn of the tide, its peeling paint and creaking floorboards whispering tales of shipwrecks and weary souls lost to the depths. Guests can often be found frozen in a nightmarish reverie, their sleep shattered by the plaintive cries of the drowned, while ghostly figures materialize along the moonlit beach, their translucent forms drifting just out of reach. Those who dare to linger long enough find the walls echoing with the sorrowful lament of the past, reminding them that some guests never truly check out.

In the shadow of the crumbling cliffs, the Hotel de France stands like a defiant specter of the 19th century, its faded grandeur whispering secrets of the long-dead as whispers curl through the hallways like smoke. Guests often find themselves caught in a shiver as the temperature plummets inexplicably, only to turn and glimpse a figure in period attire gliding silently past, its hollow eyes reflecting a sorrow untold. Yet, it is the soft, insistent whispers that gnaw at their sanity, echoing in the corners of their minds long after they've fled its haunted embrace, leaving them to wonder if they were ever truly alone.