In the dimly lit corridors of the Muehlebach Hotel, whispers of past grandeur mingle with the icy breath of the otherworldly, where the echo of polished shoes on marble floors is often interrupted by a chilling gust that seems to wrap around the throat. Guests have spoken of a shadowy figure-a former manager, perhaps-whose disapproving gaze pierces through the fabric of time, and the telltale sound of a forlorn sigh lingers as a portent of the cold spots that creep like a lovers caress before the darkness unfurls its tendrils. Those brave enough to linger past midnight find themselves ensnared in a web of unseen eyes, haunted by an unsettling question: what remains of those who once

The 21c Museum Hotel looms over Kansas City like a ghostly sentinel, its polished facade a stark contrast to the shadows that seem to cling to its corners, whispering echoes of a bygone era when it served as a bank. At night, the flickering lights dance a sinister tango with the walls, and the soft murmur of strange sounds drifts through the air, as if the spirits of lost transactions and unfulfilled promises still linger, restless and watchful. Guests often report a chilling unease that prickles at the nape of their necks-perhaps a warning that some transactions are indeed better left unsettled.

In the dimly lit hallways of The Hotel Kansas City, the whispered secrets of the Prohibition era linger like the stale scent of smoke from long-extinguished cigars, intertwining with the sound of phantom footsteps echoing in the stillness. Guests swear theyve felt the icy breath of apparitions drifting past, and doors creak open on their own, as if the building itself were exhaling the memories of those who once reveled in its shadowy embrace. But each night, as the clock strikes twelve, a heavier silence falls, warning all who dare to stay that some spirits refuse to let go-and they are hungry for company.