At Hotel des Poemes, the air hangs thick with whispers of the forgotten; the flickering candlelight casts long shadows on the worn wooden beams, where ghostly figures linger just out of sight in the dining area, their hollow eyes watching with an ancient hunger. Guests have reported the unnerving sensation of being touched by unseen hands, as if the very walls conspire to animate the relics of the past, shifting plates and silverware as though inviting the living to join their eternal feast. Here, amid the echoing laughter of long-dead patrons, the line between the present and the forgotten grows perilously thin, leaving newcomers to ponder just how many souls linger behind, waiting for an unsuspecting host to join them in their timeless revelry

At Hotel Saint-Michel, the faded wallpaper whispers secrets of past guests, its peeling edges adorned with shadows that dance when the moonlight dares to intrude. Cold breezes carry disembodied laughter through the empty corridors, a chilling serenade to those who dare to sleep beneath its haunted eaves, where fingers brush against flesh and voices tug at the edges of sanity, leaving one to wonder if they are truly alone-or whether the hotel itself has taken an unsettling interest in their stay.

In the heart of Chartres, Auberge de la Pomme d'Or stands like a lingering ghost of its past, its walls absorbing whispers of long-forgotten meals and muffled laughter, now smothered by an unsettling silence. Guests have reported flickering lights that seem to blink in terror, casting shadows that slither across the worn wooden floors, while an oppressive gaze, unseen yet palpable, clings to the backs of their necks as they dine. Theres a chill that sweeps through the air, a reminder that some stories are never truly laid to rest, and not all who wander these corridors do so of their own volition.

The Hotel Ibis Styles Chartres crouches under the weight of centuries, its corridors whispering secrets too dark to bear, where the air thickens with a suffocating unease that coils around your throat like a noose. At night, the creak of distant footsteps and the soft susurration of ghostly whispers slither through the shadowed halls, reverberating against the cold stone, as if the past itself seeks to ensnare the living in its eternal grasp. Guests speak in hushed tones of how the chill of unseen eyes follows them, an unsettling reminder that in this hotel, rest is a fleeting illusion, and something ancient watches, waiting.