The Lord Beaverbrook Hotel stood like a brooding sentinel on the banks of the St. John River, its once-ornate facade now cloaked in shadows that whispered secrets of the past. Guests often found themselves ensnared by the unsettling chill that crept through the dimly lit corridors, where the spectral figure of Lord Beaverbrook himself seemed to roam, his eyes hollow and searching, while unseen hands toyed with their belongings, sending glasses skittering across polished surfaces with a disquieting laughter echoing in the silence. As night enveloped the hotel, the air thickened with an oppressive dread, leaving patrons to wonder: what unseen presence lingered just beyond the threshold of their sanity, waiting to reveal the horrors that dwelled

In the shadow of the Old Government House, where whispers of history linger like smoke in the dimly lit hallways, a chill dances through the air, snaking down the spine of anyone brave enough to cross its threshold. Guests often find themselves startled by the sudden drop in temperature, followed by the ethereal sound of a womans laughter, echoing through the empty rooms, a haunting reminder of the life once lived within those walls-a life that clings like a shroud to those who dare spend a night under its roof. But as the sun sinks and the dark unfurls its fingers, the spectral figure in period clothing emerges, her mournful gaze promising not only a glimpse into the past, but the unmistakable sensation that the night may