In the hushed corridors of Hotel Nikko Kumamoto, the air thickens with an unsettling chill, as if the walls themselves breathe in the whispers of long-gone guests. Overhead, lights flicker like nervous fireflies, casting shadows that seem to dance with a malevolent grace, while doors creak open and shut, mocking the solitude of the unsuspecting souls within. It is here, in the unwelcoming embrace of icy corners and unseen watchers that visitors have felt the unmistakable tingle of being drawn into a darkness that hungers-leaving them haunted by the sense that some part of the hotel is very much alive, and far from friendly.

At Ryokan Yamanaka, where the wooden beams seem to sigh under the weight of centuries, an unsettling chill clings to the air like a forgotten whisper, and the flickering lanterns cast long shadows that dance with the memory of loss. Guests have reported glimpses of a woman in a tattered kimono, her mournful gaze lingering in the corners of dimly lit hallways, while the ethereal strains of a shamisen-plucked in sorrow-waft through the stillness of midnight, reminding all who listen that some echoes refuse to fade. It is said, those who linger too long may find themselves drawn to the sound, only to discover that not every visitor checks out.