At Hotel Catussaba, the whispers of history linger like shadows in the flickering light, each bulb a reluctant witness to the long-buried secrets of Salvador's past. Guests have been known to find their doors creaking open at night, stirred by unseen hands, while the air crackles with a static tension, as if the very walls hold their breath, waiting for something to emerge. Those who dare to sleep beneath its haunted roof often awaken to the chilling sensation of being watched, as if the hotel itself possesses a malignant consciousness, hungry for company.

In the shadow of its crumbling, ivy-clad walls, Hotel Convento do Carmo thrums with the resonant echoes of a lost era, where whispers of monks chants intertwine with the night air, wrapping around the unwary traveler like a shroud. Guests who dare to trespass often catch fleeting glimpses of spectral figures flitting through the moonlit courtyard, their expressions frozen in a time when suffering was a way of life, leaving a chill that burrows deep into the marrow of the soul. Those who linger after dusk find themselves ensnared in a chilling symphony of prayers long forgotten, drawn ever closer to the malevolent shadows that seem to harbor more than just memories.