The air in Hostal La Posada hangs heavy with the laughter of voices long past, echoes ricocheting off the faded walls like trapped souls seeking release in the night. Guests often find themselves waking to the sensation of fleeting shadows dancing just beyond their periphery, whispers slithering through cracked windows as if the very building remembers too much. As dawn creeps in, they discover they are not the first to share these haunted halls; the reflection of their own fear runs deeper than the dim flicker of the gas lamps, leaving behind a chill that promises they may never truly leave.

At Hotel La Casa de Marita, shadows stretch unnaturally in the dying light, and the whisper of long-dead voices clings to the air like the salt of the nearby sea. Guests have reported glimpses of spectral figures drifting through the garden, their forms dissolving into the encroaching dusk, while the underbrush rustles with the unexplainable stirrings of unseen watchers. Laughter echoes where no one stands, and as night claws at the edges of day, a creeping dread settles, each guest left wondering if they might be the next to disturb the secrets woven into the very fabric of this haunted haven.

Beneath the sterile veneer of Hotel Oro Verdes polished facade lurked an unsettling pulse-a rhythm of whispers and footsteps that echoed through the hollow hallways long after the last of the hotel staff had departed. Guests, wrapped in the comforting cocoon of their beds, often awoke to the oppressive weight of unexplained cold spots, the silent specters of a forgotten past lurking just out of view, their fleeting apparitions fading like shadows at dusk. Each night, as the lights flickered in sync with unseen breaths, an unshakeable sense of dread reminded them that in a place where history mingled with the living, some doors ought never to be opened.

The corridors of Hostal Tierra de los Andes whisper with the echoes of forgotten lives, where the heavy scent of damp stone mingles with the ghostly murmur of voices that drift through the common areas like smoke curling from a dying fire. Guests often find themselves ensnared by a haunting sense of nostalgia, as if the very walls pulse with the memories of those who once lingered here, their laughter now twisted into an eerie symphony that beckons them deeper into the shadows. Those who dare to stay too long risk becoming one with the history, their own voices fading into the soft, relentless chorus of the past, leaving only an emptiness where once there was life.

Hotel Cielo Azul looms above Manta like a sentinel of forgotten dreams, its freshly painted facade belying the chill that seeps into the marrow of any soul who dares to cross its threshold. Guests recount tales of cold spots that linger like ghostly fingers on their skin, and lighting that flickers with a disquieting intelligence, as if the hotel itself is monitoring their every move. Those who dare to stay the night find themselves haunted not by shadows alone, but by a pervasive sense of being watched, a lingering dread that whispers: some secrets are better left buried in the stillness of the dark.

Beneath the opulent facade of Hotel Casa Gangotena, shadows writhe like smoke, coiling around the ornate laden corridors of this early 20th-century gem, where the chill of uninvited whispers dances through the air. Guests have reported glimpses of a woman in white, her sorrowful figure gliding silently past, while cold spots emerge like icy fingers reaching for warmth in the oppressive stillness, leaving behind an unsettling sensation-an echo of being watched by unseen eyes. Here, in the dim light of gas lamps, the weight of countless mournful memories hangs heavy, as if the very walls harbor secrets that hunger for the living.

The Hotel Pacifico looms over Manta like a weathered sentinel, its peeling paint and cracked tiles whispering secrets of a bygone era, where laughter once echoed but now only the sighs of long-gone guests remain. At night, the air is thick with the weight of unseen hands brushing against the skin, while doors groan open and shut as if inviting the living to a dance they can never leave. Those who dare to stay often awaken to the chilling caress of a presence that lingers just a heartbeat too long, leaving them haunted by the unsettling conviction that they are never truly alone.

The air in Hotel Quito thickened with an oppressive stillness that seemed to swallow sound, broken only by the unsettling echoes of whispers curling through the ancient hallways, like secrets trying to claw their way out. Dimly lit by the flickering glow of haunted sconces, shadowy figures glided past doorways, their movements as silent as the grave yet palpable enough to set the hairs on the back of ones neck on edge. Guests, lulled into a false sense of safety beneath the crumbling plaster and velvet drapes, often awoke to the soft, rhythmic knocking of unseen hands against their walls, a reminder that some rooms in this haunting edifice were never meant to be occupied.

The air in Hotel Unipark is thick with the whispers of long-lost souls, where the peeling wallpaper seems to sigh under the weight of forgotten secrets. Guests have reported seeing a woman in white, her ghostly form gliding silently through the dimly lit corridors, an echo of sorrow haunting each step she takes. Those who dare to linger too long in the shadows often feel an icy breath on their neck, leaving them to wonder if the spirits of the past are not just remnants of history, but rather, the very architects of their restless nights.

At Hotel Sol y Mar, the echoes of early explorers linger in the salted air, their ambitions swallowed by the dense shadows that creep along the dimly lit hallways. Guests often find themselves under the unsettling gaze of unseen eyes, as flickering lights cast fleeting shadows that dance in grotesque mockery of the living. Whispers of long-gone settlers seep through the walls, leaving a chilling imprint of restlessness, and those who dare to sleep often wake to the soft sound of laughter-though no one else is ever there.