The Hotel Plaza loomed over Santa Cruz like a forgotten tomb, its crumbling facade whispering secrets of the 16th century, while the air inside thickened with the weight of untold sorrows. Guests had long reported sightings of a woman in white, gliding silently through the shadowed corridors, her face a mask of anguish twisted by unresolved fate, and the faintest echo of her mournful sobs danced on the breeze, chilling the blood of those who dared to listen. But it was the inexplicable chill that settled into their bones at night, the sensation of being watched by unseen eyes, that left an indelible scar on their minds, a warning that within these walls, the past was not just remembered; it was

In the dimly lit corridors of Hotel Asturias, shadows seem to shift just out of the corner of your eye, as if the very walls are alive with an ancient malice. Guests whisper of nights spent in uneasy slumber, roused by the soft rustle of curtains or the inexplicable glide of objects across nightstands, leaving them drenched in a chill that seeps into their bones. Each creak of the floorboards feels like a whispered warning, a reminder that the hotels true occupants prefer to remain unseen-and they have no intention of letting you leave without a taste of their lingering dread.

In the heart of La Paz, Hotel Presidente looms like a specter of a bygone era, its faded grandeur cloaked in shadows that cling uncomfortably to the walls. Guests often shiver as they traverse the drafty corridors, where cold spots cling obstinately to the air like a lingering curse, and the unsettling sensation of being watched prickles at the nape of their necks, hinting at the presence of a woman in white, her mournful gaze lingering just beyond the flickering light. Those who dare to sleep beneath its creaking eaves whisper of restless nights, riddled with dreams that morph into nightmares as the weight of unseen eyes burrows deep into their souls, leaving them haunted long after their departure.