Hotel La Isla stood like a forgotten relic amidst the encroaching Amazon, its peeling paint whispering secrets of laughter that echoed through empty hallways. Shadows danced just out of sight, flickering in the corners of the weary travelers vision, while disembodied voices drifted through the air-muffled conversations that chilled the marrow of bone. Those brave enough to sleep within its walls often woke, drenched in sweat, convinced they were not alone, for the hotel seemed to breathe with an unsettling life of its own, luring them deeper into its haunted embrace.

Within the crumbling walls of Hotel El Portal del Marques, time seems to have tangled itself in a web of whispers and shadows, where the air hangs heavy with history and the chill of unseen presences. Guests wander the dimly lit hallways, their breaths catching in their throats as muted footsteps echo around them, the faint rustle of colonial garments brushing against the past-a reminder that some spirits are reluctant to leave their earthly ties behind. They say the cold spots that graze the skin like icy fingers are harbingers of the lingerers, and those who dare to sleep here often awaken to find not just dreams haunting their slumber, but spectral figures gazing mournfully from the corners, eternally caught between worlds.

In the dimly lit corridors of Hotel Casa Andina Standard Trujillo, the air hangs thick with whispers, echoes of voices long silenced, weaving through the shadows like remnants of a forgotten past. Cold spots cling to the corners, a frigid reminder of the ancient souls who wander restlessly, their spectral presence brushing against the skin like a lover's last caress, yet laced with an unshakeable dread. Guests have come seeking comfort, only to find themselves enveloped in an insidious embrace, where the walls seem to pulse with a heartbeat of their own, and at night, the whispers grow louder, urging them to listen-to what, they dare not think.

Hotel La Hacienda looms in the shadows of Lima, a relic of forgotten grandeur steeped in whispers of the past; its ornate corridors pulse with a dreadful energy that seems to breathe with the sighs of bygone eras. Guests have recounted the unsettling flicker of lights that dance like fireflies in a tomb, while doors creak open to reveal empty rooms where a chill lingers as if someone-or something-had just brushed past them. Its said that those who stay too long may find themselves haunted not just by history, but by the spectral figures that glide silently through the night, leaving a trail of dread that lingers long after dawn.

Beneath the jagged peaks of the Andes, El Mapi stands like a shrouded specter, its ancient walls steeped in the secrets of an ageless land. As night creeps in, the air thickens with whispers, soft yet insistent, winding through the dimly lit corridors like a serpent poised to strike. Guests, once eager to embrace the mystical allure of Aguas Calientes, often find themselves gripped by an unsettling chill, their sleep interrupted by the unseen-a reminder that not all who wander here have moved on.

Beneath the unforgiving desert sun, the Casa de Arena looms, its worn stone facade whispering tales of a bygone era where shadows dance with the flicker of memory. In the chill of the night, guests wander the dimly lit hallways, only to stumble upon biting cold spots that seem to breathe, while the air thickens with the weight of unseen eyes and the faint rustle of a gossamer gown trailing behind them - the spectral figure of a woman draped in white, gliding through the silence like a secret best left undiscovered. Those who dare to linger feel the unsettling brush of movement as objects shift without cause, each night concluding with the lingering dread that perhaps, they are not as alone as they

Beneath the verdant canopy of the Amazon, Hotel Amazonian stands like a whispered secret, its walls steeped in the ghostly remnants of laughter now silenced. Guests often find themselves chilled to the bone, an eerie draft curling through the dining area as phantasmal figures flit just beyond the periphery of their vision, their hollow gazes lingering far too long. For those brave enough to linger in the shadows of its storied halls, the sense of being watched gnaws at the back of your mind, as if the very foundation of the hotel itself harbors a grim desire to reclaim its weary inhabitants.

In the heart of Yucay, Hotel La Casona stands like a hulking specter from the 17th century, its crumbling walls whispering secrets of long-buried sins and the soft echoes of disembodied laughter that drift through the moonlit corridors, teasing the edges of sanity. Guests report flickering shadows and ghostly apparitions-an uninvited audience that watches from the doorways, their laughter a chilling melody that lingers long after the sun has set. As night falls, an oppressive weight hangs in the air, and those who dare to stay discover that some voices never truly fade, intertwining their fates with the despair echoing through the haunted halls.

The faded walls of Casa de la Abuela yearned with whispers of bygone generations, their echoes twisting like smoke around the dimly lit corridors, where the air was thick with the scent of lavender and something more unsettling-a lingering touch of decay. In the flicker of candlelight, guests claimed to glimpse the spectral figure of an elderly woman, her gaze warm yet fraught with an ancient sorrow, as if she were weaving together the strands of her family's fate, watching with a motherly affection that chilled the very marrow of their bones. But beneath the surface of comfort lay an unsettling truth, for the longer one lingered in her presence, the more they felt an inescapable tug towards their own shadows, as if she were counting

The air in Hotel Chachapoyas hangs thick with the whispers of a forgotten civilization, where shadows flit through the dimly lit hallways like remnants of the Chachapoya people themselves, their ghostly footsteps echoing faintly against the peeling wallpaper. Doors creak open with an unsettling familiarity, as if welcoming unwary guests into their cold embrace, and in the quiet of the night, muffled laughter and soft cries mingle, chilling the marrow in ones bones. Those who dare to sleep here speak of a presence that slips between worlds, leaving them to wonder if the apparent silence is merely the calm before a storm of restless souls, eager to reclaim their lost domain.