The air in Hotel Chachapoyas hangs thick with the whispers of a forgotten civilization, where shadows flit through the dimly lit hallways like remnants of the Chachapoya people themselves, their ghostly footsteps echoing faintly against the peeling wallpaper. Doors creak open with an unsettling familiarity, as if welcoming unwary guests into their cold embrace, and in the quiet of the night, muffled laughter and soft cries mingle, chilling the marrow in ones bones. Those who dare to sleep here speak of a presence that slips between worlds, leaving them to wonder if the apparent silence is merely the calm before a storm of restless souls, eager to reclaim their lost domain.

In the dimly lit corridors of Hostal La Casa de los Abuelos, the air hangs thick with the whispers of the past, where every creak of the ancient wooden floors echoes with the laughter of long-dead children and the sorrow of their mothers. Guests often awaken in the night, drenched in sweat, their dreams teetering on the edge of reality, as they glimpse shadowy figures gliding silently past their doorways, their hollow eyes pleading for something lost. But its the feverish visions that haunt them, taking root in their minds like a malignant growth, leaving each visitor wondering just what they might bring back from their stay in this sanctuary of sorrows.

The faded walls of Casa de la Abuela yearned with whispers of bygone generations, their echoes twisting like smoke around the dimly lit corridors, where the air was thick with the scent of lavender and something more unsettling-a lingering touch of decay. In the flicker of candlelight, guests claimed to glimpse the spectral figure of an elderly woman, her gaze warm yet fraught with an ancient sorrow, as if she were weaving together the strands of her family's fate, watching with a motherly affection that chilled the very marrow of their bones. But beneath the surface of comfort lay an unsettling truth, for the longer one lingered in her presence, the more they felt an inescapable tug towards their own shadows, as if she were counting

In the dim corridors of Hotel La Xalca, the air is thick with an unsettling quiet, broken only by the soft, disembodied whispers that seem to seep from the very walls themselves, echoing tales of lost souls entwined in local folklore. Visitors often speak of an ethereal laughter that dances through empty rooms, accompanied by an all-too-familiar sensation of unseen fingers brushing against their skin, as if the spirits of the past are playfully beckoning them into the shadowy corners of their own nightmares. Yet, despite the allure of history, a chilling truth lingers: those who stay too long inevitably find themselves drawn into a darkness that clings tighter with every passing hour, whispering promises from the void that no one can