Hotel El Salado looms at the edge of Banos, its cracked facade whispering secrets of a turbulent past, where the echoes of long-gone patrons intertwine with the murmur of restless spirits. Within its dimly lit corridors, guests report hearing disembodied laughter that flits like a moth in the dark, while in the shadows, objects dare to dance-unbidden, inexplicable, unsettling. Those who dare to stay are warned: the walls remember, and the voices of the forgotten may beckon you into their embrace, whether you wish to join them or not.

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.

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.

Hotel San Francisco loomed over Otavalo like a forgotten specter, its peeling paint whispering secrets of the past as shadows danced in the flickering lights that never seemed to warm the cold, stale air. Doors creaked open and shut, a dissonant lullaby that beckoned the unwary, while unseen hands brushed against the flesh of those brave enough to stay the night, leaving them to wonder who-or what-might be lurking just beyond the veil of their consciousness. Guests swore they felt eyes watching from the corners of their dimly lit rooms, an unsettling reminder that in this place, the living were not alone; they were merely the latest residents in a hotel where history had never truly let go.

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 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.

Beneath the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the aged windows of La Posada del Quinde, the air thrums with an unsettling vibrancy, as if the very walls are alive with whispers of centuries-old laughter. In the stillness of the night, soft, lilting songs weave through the corridors, wrapping around guests like a shroud, coaxing them into a reverie that dances dangerously close to madness. Those who return speak of an inexplicable joy lingering in the shadows, but as the echoes fade, a chilling sense that something-playful yet dreadfully hungry-awaits just beyond the flickering candlelight lingers in their minds.

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 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.

Hotel El Indio loomed at the edge of Otavalo like a forgotten relic, its weathered stone walls echoing with the whispers of ancestral voices, their mournful cries intertwining with the haunting strains of distant panpipes that seemed to seep from the very bowels of the earth. Guests often stumbled upon shadowy figures clad in tattered woven garments, their vacant eyes locking onto souls as if to beckon them to join the endless dance of the dead; those who lingered too long found themselves trapped in a twilight realm, where time twisted and the air thickened with a sense of impending doom. Leaving the hotel was not always a choice, for sometimes, it was the hotel that decided who would remain.