The Park Avenue Hotel looms in the twilight like a forgotten sentinel, its walls seeped in the whisper of long-past regrets, where shadows twist and merge with sinister glee. Guests have often felt the chill of unseen eyes clinging to their backs as doors creak open and shut with a mind of their own-a cruel reminder that in this place, the past has a habit of bleeding into the present. As thunder rumbles in the distance, it's said that those who linger too long can almost hear the laughter of lost souls, a chilling serenade that promises the darkest of dreams and the most restless of nights.

The Malone Lodge Hotel loomed like a ghostly sentinel over the cobblestone streets of Belfast, its elegant facade a facade for the secrets that whispered within. In the dimly lit corridors, a symphony of soft footsteps echoed through the aged wood, as if the long-departed were still conducting their business among the living, while the air grew cold, thickening with an unseen gaze that seemed to penetrate the very marrow of ones bones. Guests often found themselves holding their breath, caught in a spectral ballet of disembodied voices and chilling drafts, as if the hotel itself conspired to remind them: some guests never truly check out.