In the dimly lit corridors of The Caleta Hotel, where the salty breeze carries whispers of a bygone era, the shadows seem to conspire with the walls that once held the agony of soldiers. A ghostly figure, draped in the tattered remnants of a military uniform, glides through the halls, leaving an icy chill that lingers like a forgotten secret, while the restless spirits of the past play tricks on unsuspecting guests-objects shifting silently, as if the very air is charged with the weight of their unrelenting sorrow. Those who dare to linger too long at the edge of the night have spoken of a palpable dread, a sensation that whatever haunts these halls is not only watching but waiting, eager to share its

The OCallaghan Eliott Hotel looms like a forgotten specter amid the weathered stone of Gibraltar, where whispers of the past curl like smoke through its dimly lit corridors. Guests, lured by its facade of elegance, often find themselves ensnared in an icy grip, shadows flickering just beyond the corners of their vision, as if the very walls yearn to recount their buried secrets. Beneath the veneer of hospitality lies a shivering dread, an unseen presence that lingers long after the lights dim, leaving the unsettling certainty that not all who check in are destined to check out.