The Cobo Bay Hotel looms like a specter against the relentless churn of the tide, its peeling paint and creaking floorboards whispering tales of shipwrecks and weary souls lost to the depths. Guests can often be found frozen in a nightmarish reverie, their sleep shattered by the plaintive cries of the drowned, while ghostly figures materialize along the moonlit beach, their translucent forms drifting just out of reach. Those who dare to linger long enough find the walls echoing with the sorrowful lament of the past, reminding them that some guests never truly check out.

In the shadows of La Moinerie, where the walls still hold the whispers of the island's agricultural past, the air thickens with a chill that seems to thrum with a life of its own. Stepping through the door is like crossing into another time, where the soft scuff of unseen footsteps echoes down dim corridors and fragile murmurs lace the silence, hinting at souls forever tethered to the soil they once toiled. Those who have lingered too long find themselves not just haunted by the flicker of ghostly apparitions but watchful eyes that peer from the corners of their vision, an unsettling reminder that some secrets are best left buried.