The Hilton London Metropole looms like a dark specter over the bustling streets, its long, echoing hallways whispering secrets of the past while flurries of flickering lights dance erratically against peeling wallpaper. Guests, once eager for a night of indulgence, now tread lightly, haunted by the soft rustle of a womans spectral dress that drifts behind them, the air thick with her lingering sorrow. The gnawing unease settles into their bones as muffled sobs loop like a chilling refrain, reminding each visitor that within its walls, the dead are never truly at rest.

The Radisson Blu Edwardian on Mercer Street stands like a sentry of the 19th century, its opulent facade concealing whispers of a past where every echo of laughter is drowned in the mournful sighs of restless souls. Guests frequently find themselves ensnared in the chilling embrace of something unseen, the soft patter of footsteps trailing them down dimly lit hallways, only to turn and find nothing but the oppressive silence, broken occasionally by the distant murmur of voices that cling to the air like a lingering fog. On the upper floors, where the sighs of the bygone mingle with the tingle of dread, many have dared to sleep, only to awaken to the suffocating weight of unseen eyes, reminding them