Beneath its polished veneer, The Delta Hotels by Marriott Ottawa City Centre breathes unease, the echo of whispers and phantom footsteps winding through the dimly lit older corridors like a forgotten memory. Shadows flicker just out of sight, catching glimpses of sorrowful figures lingering at the edges of perception, their hollow eyes forever searching. Guests have come for comfort but leave shaken, haunted by the chilling realization that something ancient stirs beneath the surface, watching, waiting, and perhaps, wishing to join them.

In the dim, flickering light of The Lord Elgin Hotel's aged corridors, shadows stretch grotesquely as if reaching for the living, while doors creak open, whispering secrets only the walls have heard. Guests often feel an icy breath trailing behind them, a disquieting reminder that they are not alone; the ghostly figure of a woman in white glides silently, her mournful gaze lingering on their backs, as if counting the living before retreating into darkness. They say the hotel holds its breath at night, steeped in a silence so profound it hums with anticipation, leaving each visitor haunted by the suspicion that they are watched by invisible eyes yearning for something just beyond the veil of this world.

In the heart of Ottawa, The Minto Suite Hotel stands like a crooked tooth in a mouth too eager to swallow shadows, where flickering lights dance like mocking phantoms and the walls seem to breathe with the weight of whispered secrets. Guests, lured by the promise of luxury, soon find themselves enveloped in an unsettling stillness punctuated only by the echoing sighs of a presence that lingers just beyond the edge of perception, while staff, wide-eyed and pale, recount the nights when unexplained noises twist and coil through the corridors like a predator stalking its prey. For those who dare to stay, its more than a nights rest-it's an invitation to awaken something far better left undisturbed.

The Ottawa Jail Hostel looms like a sentry of despair, its gray stone walls whispering secrets of the 1862 inmates who once languished within. As night descends, the echo of clanking chains melds with the soft patter of phantom footsteps, a chilling symphony that thrums beneath the very floorboards, while shadowy figures dance just beyond the flicker of the candlelight, a reminder that in this decrepit sanctuary, the line between the living and the damned is astoundingly thin. Guests have been known to awaken in the suffocating grip of dread, their breaths mingling with the cold, damp air that carries the weight of countless tormented souls, leaving them to wonder just who-or what-shares