At the heart of Loja, where cobblestone streets whisper secrets of a bygone era, Hostal La Casa de la Cultura rises like a ghostly sentinel, its faded facade a mere facade for the horrors that linger within. As night descends, a haunting piano melody drifts through the desolate halls, notes both melancholy and taunting, echoing where no musician has dared to tread-inviting the curious yet chilling the marrow in their bones. Guests speak in hushed tones of shadows that dance just out of sight, and those who linger too long in the common areas find themselves yearning for an end to the music, as if silence itself is a luxury they may never reclaim.

Hotel El Portal stood like a weary specter against Lojas misty backdrop, its once-grand arches now sagging under the weight of a history steeped in sorrow and whispers too quiet to catch. In the dimly lit hallways, the flickering of shadowy figures danced just beyond the edge of sight, creeping along the walls as if the very air trembled with the memories of those long departed, leaving guests unsettled with an unshakeable dread that clung to them like a second skin. Many who dared to spend the night would awaken to the suffocating presence of unseen watchers, a chilling reminder that some doors, once opened, invite much darker things to linger far beyond the realm of the living.