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?

The Hotel Pacifico looms over Manta like a weathered sentinel, its peeling paint and cracked tiles whispering secrets of a bygone era, where laughter once echoed but now only the sighs of long-gone guests remain. At night, the air is thick with the weight of unseen hands brushing against the skin, while doors groan open and shut as if inviting the living to a dance they can never leave. Those who dare to stay often awaken to the chilling caress of a presence that lingers just a heartbeat too long, leaving them haunted by the unsettling conviction that they are never truly alone.