In the dimly lit corridors of The Four Points by Sheraton Halifax, the air thickens with an unsettling chill, as if the shadows themselves conspire to keep secrets of a forgotten past. Guests often find themselves entranced by the flickering lights overhead, each sputter bursting like a suppressed gasp, while a prickling awareness slithers down their spines, whispering that they are far from alone. It is in these haunted spaces that the echo of lingering eyes watches with an unsettling hunger, waiting patiently for the next soul to succumb to the hotels dark embrace.

The James Bay Inn, an imposing relic from 1911, looms over the cobblestone streets of Victoria like a forgotten specter, its walls echoing the whispers of time. Guests have recounted unsettling encounters with a ghostly woman in a flowing white dress, her mournful silhouette gliding through the dimly lit corridors, while the air crackles with the sounds of phantom footsteps and the flicker of lights that blink in and out like the lost souls trapped within its decaying embrace. Each night, as shadows deepen and the stillness creeps in, one cant help but feel that something-or someone-watches from the corners, waiting for the unsuspecting to surrender their warmth to the cold touch of the past.

In the hushed corridors of The Delta Hotels by Marriott Prince Edward, the weight of the 19th century coils uneasily in the air, as if the very walls are steeped in lingering regrets. Shadows dance beneath flickering lights that seem to pulse with a heartbeat of their own, while the whispers of long-gone guests echo through the drafts-a disembodied susurrus that freezes the blood and stirs the hair on the back of your neck. Here, in the dim corners and aged woodwork, the eerie sensation of being watched tightens like a noose, as if the past is not merely remembered, but waiting, ever so patiently, for its next visitor to succumb to the chilling embrace of the unseen.

The Old Mill Toronto stands like a forgotten specter from the 1800s, its weathered stones whispering secrets of a time when the gristmill churned with life, now replaced by a chilling silence that curls around the air like mist. Shadows dance in the corners, and a ghostly woman in white drifts through the twilight, her mournful gaze lingering on the living, while doors swing open and shut with an unsettling, rhythmic persistence, as if the spirits themselves are beckoning the unwary. Guests often find themselves ensnared in the heavy grip of a tangible unease, left questioning whether it is truly the wind they hear, or the sighs of those long gone, echoing through the corridors of the restless past

The Queen Elizabeth Hotel looms over Charlottetown like a forgotten specter of the early 20th century, its faded grandeur marred by the whisper of disembodied voices that slither through the dimly lit corridors. Shadows dance in the corners of the rooms, where apparitions linger, their hollow eyes gazing into the void of those who dare to rest their heads beneath a ceiling stained by decades of secrets. As distant footsteps echo with an unsettling persistence, guests often find themselves awake, heart racing, as unseen watchers seem to breathe in the silence, reminding them that peace is but a feeble illusion behind the hotels crumbling walls.

Auberge Sainte-Antoine stands like a weary sentinel over the cobblestone streets of Quebec City, its weathered stones whispering secrets of a bygone fur trading era, where echoes of laughter have long been drowned by sinister footsteps that scuttle through dimly lit hallways. Guests often find themselves entranced by an icy breeze that snakes through the air, a ghostly reminder that not all who wandered these halls have departed, and shadows shift just beyond the periphery of vision, hinting at the lingering presence of those who once called it home. With each creak of the floorboards and every fleeting draft, the hotel weaves a chilling tapestry of the past, leaving visitors questioning not just what they hear, but what - or

The Westin Bayshore looms by the water, its once-stately facade now cloaked in whispers of a time long past, where the laughter of ghosts echoes through the marbled halls. As the sun dips below the horizon, shadows stretch and breathe in the corners of each room; guests report a shiver of presence brushing against their skin and the unmistakable sound of muffled voices drifting through the night. In this haven masquerading as a sanctuary, the only certainty is that not every restless spirit has found its way to peace-some merely linger, waiting for a listener.

The Olde Stone Inn crouches beneath the heavy fog of St. John's like a secretive sentinel of forgotten lives, where the laughter of long-dead patrons echoes in the chill-wrought corridors, teasing the eardrums of the living with tantalizing whispers. Shadows flit erratically, darting between doorways like nervous specters, while the unsettling symphony of disembodied voices reverberates through empty rooms, a chilling reminder that some guests check in but never check out. Each night, the air thickens with a palpable dread, as if the very walls exhale the sighs of those who once roamed freely, and the only assurance of safety lies in the knowledge that, though you may sleep, you are never

The Travelodge Hotel & Conference Centre Regina looms like a weary specter among the flat plains, its faded neon sign flickering uncertainly beneath a shroud of overcast skies. Guests tread its echoing hallways with a palpable unease, feeling the cold breath of unseen presences lingering just at the edges of their vision, doors creaking open without a hand to guide them, as if the very walls conspire to draw them deeper into its ghastly embrace. Those who stay too long whisper of a nameless dread, a constant reminder that some shadows are not merely reflections of the past but vengeful harbingers of what lies yet to come.

The Union Bank Inn looms like a forgotten specter from another age, its weathered facade whispering secrets of the dead who once lingered in its darkened halls. Guests have reported unsettling whispers curling through the air, the sensation of unseen eyes tracing their every movement, while a spectral chill dances on the edges of their sanity, as if the very walls are alive with memories of a long-buried tragedy. In the flickering shadows, figures appear momentarily-clad in the tattered remnants of time-but when they step into the light, the heart quickens, for in this hotel, the lingering past is far from restful.