In the heart of Washington D.C., The Hay-Adams stands like a sentinel, its grand facade whispering secrets from a bygone era, where even the air carries a chill that clings to the soul. Midnight guests often catch glimpses of a sorrowful figure gliding past their doors, a ghostly remnant of a former resident trapped in time, while echoes of measured footsteps waltz mockingly through the dimly lit hallways, leaving skin prickling with an unnerving sense of being watched. It is said that those who stay too long may find themselves ensnared in a history that refuses to let go, the past clawing at the edges of their sanity with every restless night.

At the Jefferson Hotel, shadows twist like whispered secrets in the dimly lit hallways, where guests find themselves ensnared by the flickering of gas lamps that seem to sputter in response to an unseen breath. The air thickens with the weight of history-a persistent chill curling around each corner, as if the very walls are whispering forbidden tales of their once-illustrious namesake. It is said that at the witching hour, the soft rustle of old parchment can be heard alongside the unsettling clang of doors creaking open, a spectral echo of Thomas Jefferson himself, leaving visitors to wonder who truly resides in the heart of this haunted edifice-alive or otherwise.