The Kalk Hotel loomed in the dim light of a fading dusk, its weathered facade whispering secrets of the 19th century while the air crackled with electricity-a prelude to the ghostly symphony that played within its walls. Guests often found themselves alone in their rooms, only to be followed by a prickle at the nape of their neck, as if unseen eyes scrutinized their every move, while lights flickered sporadically, as though the hotel itself were breathing, alive with the memories of those who once roamed its halls. Some left with only unsettling tales clinging to them like shadows, but a few others never seemed to check out at all, their laughter lost to the silence that hung thick like fog in

Beneath the weight of history, Havshotellet crouches like a specter on the edge of Visby, where the air is thick with the salt of the sea and whispers of the damned. At night, when the wind howls through cracked window panes, guests speak of unseen presences that linger, their cold breath tracing the nape of the neck like skeletal fingers, and soft, mournful echoes of long-forgotten mariners calling them to join their eternal vigil. Those who dare to sleep within its walls often awake to find shadows lurking just beyond the flickering light, a constant reminder that some stories are not meant to end, and some souls are never meant to rest.

The air in Hotel Gute hangs heavy with an oppressive stillness, as if time itself recoils in fear, and the flickering gas lamps cast long shadows that dance like the restless spirits of long-dead patrons. Guests have whispered of ghostly figures gliding through the unwelcoming halls, their icy fingers brushing against skin as if beckoning one to join them in a fate sealed long ago. And in the lonely dim of night, a shiver of dread unfurls, for those who have felt the unseen presence often find themselves waking to the echo of soft, sorrowful whispers, a reminder that some stories refuse to be forgotten.