The Hotel Silken Gran Teatro looms like a shadow from a forgotten era, its faded velvet drapes whispering secrets of a bygone stage where laughter once echoed, now replaced by haunting footfalls that echo in the darkened hallways. Guests often find themselves ensnared by the weighty gaze of unseen spectators, as if the very walls breathe in their unease, amplifying the unsettling murmurs drifting from the depths of the night - a chilling reminder that some performances never truly end. In the stillness, it becomes impossible to discern whether the prickling sensation along the nape of one's neck is merely the draft of the past or something far more sinister lurking just out of sight.

In the damp whispers of Casa del Cid, where the air hangs thick with the weight of history and forgotten battles, shadows writhe like restless phantoms against the stone walls, their presence marked by the chilling clang of spectral armor echoing through dimly lit halls. Guests who dare to close their eyes at night are often jolted awake by the unmistakable sound of a ghostly steed, the haunting cries of long-dead warriors entwined with their dreams-as if the very essence of El Cid himself prowls just beyond the veil, forever guarding secrets better left buried. Those who leave in the light of day often can't shake the feeling that something unseen but undeniably weighty has latched onto their souls, as if the ancient spirit