Hotel Sagres stood in Belem like a mausoleum, its faded facade harboring secrets of a bygone era. Shadows danced in the flickering light of the corridor sconces, where whispers of a woman in white glided silently, her mournful gaze echoing stories of loss long forgotten. Guests often awoke to find their belongings rearranged, the air thick with a chilling reminder that the past was not so easily laid to rest, and the dead were not the only things that lingered in the hotels oppressive embrace.

In the suffocating humidity of Belem, the Hotel Grao Para stands like a mausoleum, its once-elegant corridors echoing with the whispers of forgotten guests. At night, the oppressive stillness is broken by the chilling sound of disembodied footsteps-an unsettling reminder that some residents never checked out, their icy presence lurking in the shadows of the cold spots that bleed from the very walls. Those who are brave enough to stay often speak of a heavy silence, punctuated only by the soft, mournful sighs of the unseen, as if the hotel itself is aware of their every breath, watching, waiting, and perhaps even longing for company to join its restless souls.

The Hotel Princesa Louca looms like a specter against the humid haze of Belem, its once-grand facade now peeling, as if the walls themselves were shedding memories of laughter that echo through the empty halls. Guests shiver at the flickering lights, which seem to pulse with a life of their own, while an unseen presence plays tricks, brushing past them with icy fingers that leave them questioning their own sanity. Here, the air is thick with whispers of the past and the unsettling promise that the shadows are never truly alone; something waits, watching, with a grin that only they can hear.