In the dimly lit hallways of Hotel Emonec, where the creaking floorboards echo whispers of centuries past, the laughter of unseen children dances like smoke-light, fleeting, and utterly disconcerting. Guests report glimpsing shadowy figures slipping through cracked doorways, as if the very walls are steeped in the memories of a long-forgotten tragedy, their presence a reminder that in this haunted sanctuary, the past is never truly buried. Those who dare to spend the night often awaken to the chilling realization that they are not alone, a sense of being watched weaving through the air, leaving unshakeable dread nestled in their bones.

The Grand Hotel Union looms in Ljubljana like a brooding specter, its ornate facade whispering secrets of a bygone era and the shadows of history clinging to its peeling wallpaper. Beneath the flickering gaslamps, echoes of muffled footsteps and hushed conversations weave through the empty hallways, where the ghostly shapes of former guests in crumbling finery drift just out of sight, leaving behind a suffocating chill that seems to breathe with the weight of their unfulfilled desires. Those brave enough to linger within its walls often speak of an unsettling presence, a reminder that some guests never truly check out, their quiet lamentations weaving an invisible net of dread that ensnares the living in an eternal waltz of

Beneath the moons pallid gaze, Vila Podvin stands like a ghostly sentinel, its weathered facade whispering secrets of the early 20th century, while the air grows thick with the scent of damp earth and lost memories. Guests have spoken in hushed tones of the woman in white, her spectral form gliding through the overgrown gardens, an echo of sorrow that chills the very marrow of their bones, as frigid drafts snuff out warmth in rooms where shadows mingle with the living. Those who dare to tread its hallways feel the uncanny touch of her icy breath, a lingering reminder that some souls are unwilling to yield their grip on the world of the living.

Hotel Lev loomed over Ljubljana like a relic of a forgotten era, its concrete facade masking the chill that seeped through the walls like a whisper of despair. Guests often found themselves gripped by a suffocating sense of being watched, a gaze heavy and unyielding, while the basement-an unholy catacomb of shadows-radiated bone-deep cold that coiled around the spine, leaving an unsettling reminder that the past is never truly buried. In those hushed corridors, where laughter once echoed, uneasy souls often left with a lingering feeling that something unseen had marked them, as if they'd taken a piece of the hotel with them-one that would haunt their dreams long after they checked out.