Hotel Del Lago stands like a crumbling sentry at the edge of Maracaibo, its faded grandeur concealing layers of despair and lingering sorrow. Guests often find themselves ensnared in a chilling symphony of disembodied laughter and sinister whispers that curl around the drapes of empty rooms, while shadowy figures flit past fogged windows, as if the very walls breathe secrets of the dead. For those brave enough to spend the night, the echoes of mirth may soon morph into something far more sinister, leaving them to wonder whether the true vacancy lies not in the rooms, but within their own souls.

In the heart of Maracaibo, Hotel Zulia loomed like a specter of forgotten dreams, its peeling paint whispering secrets of the late 20th century, where shadows danced on walls drenched in dread. Guests would often awaken to find their rooms flickering with erratic light, as if the spirits of the past were searching for an escape, while an unshakeable terror gripped their hearts like a vice, urging them to flee-but leaving them rooted in place, held captive by the suffocating silence. Each night, as the sun dipped below the horizon, the air thickened with a palpable unease, and those who dared to linger spoke of the cold hands that brushed against their faces in the dark, a chilling

Hotel La Riviera loomed over Maracaibo like a specter from a time long forgotten, its peeling paint whispering secrets of the 1960s. Guests who dared to venture into its faded elegance often found themselves enveloped in an unshakable chill, the air thick with an unseen presence, while the soft clatter of silverware echoed from the deserted dining area, as if long-dead patrons still reveled in their final feast. Those who glimpsed the flickering shadows darting between the cracked columns were never the same again, as though the very walls conspired to trap their souls within the hotels sinister embrace.