Amidst the polished marble and immaculate decor of the Hotel Westin, a disquieting chill lingers, as though the very walls are reluctant custodians of secrets best left buried. Guests often awaken to the ghostly echo of soft whispers weaving through the air, accompanied by an inexplicable drop in temperature that gnaws at their bones, making the skin prick with unease. In the heart of this seemingly modern paradise, something ancient watches, waiting patiently to breathe life into the shadows, leaving patrons with an undeniable sense that they are never truly alone.

Beneath the oppressive facade of Hotel International, where the echoes of laughter from the 1969 opening mingle with the oppressive silence of the halls, a darkness stirs, enveloping guests in an invisible shroud. The chilling whispers of unseen entities swirl through the air, each rustle of fabric and creaking floorboards hinting at prying eyes lurking just beyond the veil of sight, while inexplicable cold spots gnaw at the warmth of the living. As night falls, a suffocating dread settles over the weary travelers, who unknowingly slip into a realm where the line between the present and the past blurs, leaving them gasping for breath beneath an unseen weight, watched by shadows that have long since tired of waiting for their

The Palace Hotel, with its opulent facade peeling back the layers of time, echoes with whispers of a forgotten era, where the air hangs thick with the weight of sorrowful apparitions-ghostly figures captured in desperate moments, flitting through the dim corridors like faded memories. In the dining area, laughter has long since withered, replaced by the unsettling clatter of silverware that skitters across tables as if moved by unseen hands, and in the stillness of night, guests have awoken to find their belongings rearranged, as though the hotel itself is a restless curator of their dreams and nightmares. Those who dare to linger often find themselves wondering if they are sharing their rooms with history or something far more sinister; the line between the

Hotel Antunovic loomed like a dark sentinel against the Zagreb skyline, its hallways whispering secrets of bygone eras as shadows flickered just beyond the corner of ones eye. Guests often found themselves enveloped in an unsettling chill, the air turning frigid as if ghosts of the past pressed close, their unseen forms leaving behind an echo of their presence in the room. For those who dared to stay, the thin line between the living and the lost blurred, leaving them haunted by the disquieting sensation that something-or someone-was never truly gone.

In the shadowed hallways of Hotel Dubrovnik, established in 1929, the very walls seem to tremble with the weight of the stories they hold-whispered secrets flutter through the air like moths drawn to a flickering light, only to vanish before they can be grasped. Guests often find the oppressive silence punctuated by disembodied footsteps trailing just behind them, laughter echoing from empty rooms, a chilling reminder that some echoes refuse to fade with the setting sun. And as night descends, the corridors breathe, buzzing with a presence that invites you to listen closely-just as the last guest did, before they, too, were consumed by the hotels lingering shadows.