In the dim corridors of Hotel San Antonio El Real, the air hangs thick with a palpable dread, as if the very stones whisper secrets of sacrilege long buried. Guests often awaken to the chilling echoes of mournful chanting, the sound weaving through shadows that flicker just beyond the periphery of vision, where monks once roamed in pious silence, now turned into restless specters of a forgotten faith. Those who dare to linger report a suffocating weight upon their chests, tightening as the darkness deepens, leaving them wondering if their dreams are merely a gateway to the tormented souls that still haunt these hollowed halls.

The Hotel Infanta Isabel looms in the heart of Segovia, its crumbling facade a reminder of the 19th century's dark secrets, whispering through the shadowed corridors where footsteps echo from nowhere, a disembodied cadence that chills the bone. As if stitched into the very fabric of its walls, sudden cold spots steal warmth from the unsuspecting, while flickers of specters glide past, their faint murmurs trapped in the air like the sighs of long-dead souls. Those brave enough to sleep beneath its haunted roof often wake to find the darkness pressing in, suffocated by the weight of unseen eyes watching and waiting.