Hotel Red Mangrove loomed like a specter against the darkening sky, its weathered walls whispering of lost souls and forgotten histories, where the rustle of unseen movements and the faint echo of disembodied voices turned the air thick with dread. Guests often found their belongings inexplicably rearranged, as if the very spirits of the island were toying with them, leaving behind a chill that sank into their bones, a silent warning that some doors should never be opened. Those who lingered too long spoke of a gnawing unease, a feeling that they were not alone, and when night fell, shadows danced in the corners of the rooms, veiling the hidden terrors waiting just beyond the edge of their sight.

In the shadowy recesses of Hotel Boutique Vista del Angel, where the whispers of Quitos past intertwine with the spectral remnants of sorrow, mirrors glint like darkened portals, occasionally reflecting not the living but the long-forgotten souls who linger still. Guests have reported a peculiar heaviness in the air, as if unseen eyes are watching, their breath chilled by the intangible energy that hums through the historic walls, drawing them into a dance with phantoms who smile just behind their reflections. Those who dare to gaze too long might find that the figures lurking in the glass are all too eager to step out of the past-into their present.

Hotel El Portal stood like a weary specter against Lojas misty backdrop, its once-grand arches now sagging under the weight of a history steeped in sorrow and whispers too quiet to catch. In the dimly lit hallways, the flickering of shadowy figures danced just beyond the edge of sight, creeping along the walls as if the very air trembled with the memories of those long departed, leaving guests unsettled with an unshakeable dread that clung to them like a second skin. Many who dared to spend the night would awaken to the suffocating presence of unseen watchers, a chilling reminder that some doors, once opened, invite much darker things to linger far beyond the realm of the living.

Hostal La Rosa loomed at the edge of Otavalo, its colonial walls steeped in whispers laden with the laughter of unseen children, echoes from centuries past. Guests often found themselves ensnared in cold spots, a shiver creeping down their spines as the air thickened with inexplicable dread, turning the vibrant laughter into a haunting melody that curled around their ears like smoke. Yet nothing chilled the bone more than the realization that some nights, amid the creaking floors and flickering lights, the laughter seemed almost... inviting, beckoning them to join a game from which there was no escape.

Beneath the faded grandeur of Hotel Manta, the air hung thick with whispers of the past, where time seemed to twist like the shadows in the dimly lit corridors. Guests often found themselves unnerved, their breaths hitching as light bulbs flickered ominously overhead, casting ghostly shapes that danced just out of sight; an unseen presence that brushed against their skin like a cold finger gliding down their spine. Those who dared to linger felt the weight of a thousand watchful eyes, a reminder that some histories refuse to stay buried, leaving behind an unsettling promise that once you enter, you may never truly leave.

In the heart of Guayaquil, Hotel Boutique Casa de Romero stands like a mausoleum dressed in faded elegance, its peeling walls whispering the secrets of long-gone residents who never truly left. Guests have reported echoes of laughter mingling with the creaking floorboards, shadows slipping just out of sight, and the chilling sensation of cold air spiraling from nowhere as objects-glasses, books, even furniture-shift unnaturally in the dim light, as if orchestrated by unseen hands. Those who dare to stay find themselves haunted not just by the hotels history, but by a primal dread that gnaws at their sanity, leaving them questioning whether they are the occupants, or merely the latest offerings to a restless past.

Hotel San Vicente loomed over the shores of Isabela Island like a forgotten relic, its peeling paint and sagging balconies whispering the lost tales of early settlers who sought fortune but found only despair. At night, the air thickened with an unnatural chill, and disembodied voices danced through the corridors, the hushed tones of long-dead inhabitants lingering like a shroud-an unsettling reminder that some guests never truly checked out. As the temperature plummeted in their rooms, an oppressive sense of being watched crept into their bones, leaving them to wonder: who, or what, was waiting for them in the dark?

Hotel La Andaluza loomed in Otavalo like a sentient relic, its walls whispering secrets of centuries past, where the shadows of indigenous spirits danced among the flickering lights that seemed to pulse with a life of their own. Guests reported an unsettling chill that slithered through the corridors, a breath of the long-departed wrapping around their throats, while the air crackled with an eerie electricity as if the very souls of the hotel were probing the warmth of the living. Those who dared to close their eyes at night often woke to find a presence lingering just out of sight, an unseen watcher that filled the silence with an unshakable dread, leaving them to wonder if they had truly escaped the grasp of the

In the shadow of the ancient mangroves, Hotel Finch Bay stands like a weary sentinel, its weathered facade whispering of secrets buried in the damp earth beneath its floorboards. As night descends, the unsettling murmurs of the island rise-faint cries shiver through the air, and silhouettes flicker in the periphery, leaving guests with an oppressive sense of being watched by unseen eyes. Those who dare to close their eyes in its haunted embrace often awaken to the feeling that they are not alone, their breath quickening as the line between the living and the restless blurs into an eternal twilight.

Hotel Cielo Azul looms above Manta like a sentinel of forgotten dreams, its freshly painted facade belying the chill that seeps into the marrow of any soul who dares to cross its threshold. Guests recount tales of cold spots that linger like ghostly fingers on their skin, and lighting that flickers with a disquieting intelligence, as if the hotel itself is monitoring their every move. Those who dare to stay the night find themselves haunted not by shadows alone, but by a pervasive sense of being watched, a lingering dread that whispers: some secrets are better left buried in the stillness of the dark.