In the dimly lit corridors of the Pomme d'Or Hotel, shadows twist and elongate, as if the very walls are straining to breathe, haunted by the whispers of a long-dead manager whose presence clings to the air like the acrid scent of old cigars. Guests often find themselves shivering inexplicably, as icy drafts sweep through the hallways, flickering the gas lamps into a chaotic dance that illuminates fleeting glimpses of a sorrowful specter-his eyes pools of regret, eternally seeking resolution in a world he can no longer touch. As they retreat to their rooms, a lingering unease grips their hearts, for the echoes of laughter and clinking glasses feel eerily out of place, like

In the shadow of the crumbling cliffs, the Hotel de France stands like a defiant specter of the 19th century, its faded grandeur whispering secrets of the long-dead as whispers curl through the hallways like smoke. Guests often find themselves caught in a shiver as the temperature plummets inexplicably, only to turn and glimpse a figure in period attire gliding silently past, its hollow eyes reflecting a sorrow untold. Yet, it is the soft, insistent whispers that gnaw at their sanity, echoing in the corners of their minds long after they've fled its haunted embrace, leaving them to wonder if they were ever truly alone.