Beneath the sun-bleached facade of Hotel Antay, where the salty breeze of Arica meets the whispers of the past, shadows lurk in the corners of dimly lit corridors, and the air is thick with an electric tension that prickles the skin. Guests retreat to their rooms, only to find temperature plummeting in quiet corners, the flickering lights casting grotesque shapes that dance in the periphery of vision, as if a hidden spectator is silently observing their every move. Many have checked out, their faces pale and haunted, murmuring of unseen eyes that weigh heavily upon the soul, leaving a chilling question-what truly resides in the silence of those walls?

Hotel La Cabana stood like a weary sentinel against the merciless Arica sun, its peeling facade whispering of a past steeped in indigenous blood and secrets. Guests often found themselves ensnared in the grip of freezing drafts that flowed through the rooms like memories best left buried, while faint echoes of ancestral lamentation twisted through the shadows, leaving a lingering chill in their bones. Many, upon waking in the dead of night, would find themselves straining to identify the source of the spectral murmurs, only to discover that they were not alone-that the hotel itself breathed with the weight of souls long departed.

In the dusty corridors of Hotel El Paso, shadows flicker like lost memories, whispering secrets on the stale air, while misplaced trinkets mysteriously reappear in unsettling arrangements-an unwelcome game played by unseen hands. Guests often find themselves awakened by soft, accusatory murmurs that curl around them like smoke, urging them to listen, to remember. Those who dare to linger too long risk becoming part of the hotel's tragic history, bound to its silence, their voices merging with the cacophony of the night.