Night Watchmen and the Ghostly San Bernardo Mission

It’s the kind of story that belongs in a Stephen King novel, or perhaps in one of those grainy documentaries that appear on obscure television channels at 2 a.m. on Sunday mornings. But no, dear reader, this isn't fiction. It’s a true account, a slice of real life served up with a side of good old-fashioned terror, where a dusty, neglected old building refuses to sit quietly in the dark like a proper piece of historical architecture. Instead, it becomes the epicenter of some supernatural prankery worthy of its own Netflix special.

The San Bernardo Mission, by day, is your run-of-the-mill historical site. It’s a handsome structure, built from aged adobe and surrounded by the sort of beauty that only centuries of weathering can bestow upon brick and mortar. It’s the kind of place that schools might force kids to visit, where they’re dragged around by someone dressed as a monk and taught to appreciate "the cultural significance" while secretly planning how to escape the ordeal for a packet of crisps. But come nightfall, the San Bernardo Mission turns into a different beast entirely. And no, I’m not talking about bats, or rodents, or the drunks that tend to haunt historical sites when they’ve missed the last bus home. I’m talking about something altogether spookier.

Our tale begins innocently enough: a city government, probably composed of people who think ghosts are as real as fairies and diet water, needed a night watchman. The San Bernardo Mission needed guarding, presumably to stop some ne’er-do-wells from smashing the windows or spraying graffiti that says "Brian was here" or some other witless drivel. So, they did what bureaucrats do best: they hired someone to keep an eye on the place overnight. Simple, you might think. Well, think again.

The first chap they hired — let’s call him ‘Brave Soul Number One’ — was no slouch. He showed up, probably armed with a flashlight and a thermos of stale coffee, ready to guard this relic of history. But not even six hours into his first night, Brave Soul Number One decided he had seen enough. It was the dead of night, around 4 or 5 in the morning — that cursed hour when only werewolves, ghosts, and exhausted parents are supposed to be awake. Instead of keeping a careful watch on the Mission, he found himself legging it all the way back to City Hall. And if you’ve ever tried running at 4 a.m. after being terrified out of your wits, you know it’s no easy feat. He arrived at headquarters, probably panting like a Labrador, and declared he was done. No more guarding, he said. He didn’t care about pay, prestige, or public service. He was quitting because the Mission was, in his words, scaring people.

Now, you’d think that would be a one-off, a single bloke with an overactive imagination. Maybe he spooked himself by accidentally shining his torch into a mirror. But no. A second watchman, Brave Soul Number Two, was swiftly employed, presumably under the impression that the first fellow had been overreacting. Alas, the same fate awaited him. By 4 or 5 a.m., he too was back at City Hall, wide-eyed and babbling about horrors that would make a ghostbuster blush. He described voices that whispered in the shadows and, more bizarrely, invisible stone-throwers. Yes, stones! Pelted from nowhere, ricocheting off walls, and generally behaving like they were in the opening scene of Indiana Jones.

The officer on duty, probably a man who had seen it all — public indecency, bar fights, and bureaucratic drudgery — was understandably perplexed. But being a good government employee, he took the statement down dutifully: "The watchman showed up and resigned because inside the Mission, when everything is closed, someone throws stones and voices are heard." No mention of poltergeists or demons, because let’s not be dramatic.

The authorities tried to be pragmatic about it, of course. They attempted to talk the two watchmen into returning to duty, which, if you ask me, is a display of either incredible optimism or astonishing stupidity. And shockingly, one of them did return. Perhaps he had bills to pay or a nagging spouse who didn’t take kindly to tales of haunted Missions. But he had conditions. He wanted a safe space, a place far away from the Mission itself. A fortress of solitude, if you will. And lo and behold, a piece of furniture was dragged some 60 to 80 meters from the western gate, serving as a refuge for the man tasked with protecting the very thing he was too scared to approach. The absurdity of it is almost poetic.

And yet, the tales didn’t stop. Rumors swirled about stones and ghostly voices. Even in the early hours, long after the gates were sealed, the Mission seemed determined to misbehave. Today, the San Bernardo Mission is locked up tight by 7 p.m., as though shutting the doors might somehow keep the restless spirits inside. Perhaps it does. Or perhaps, like all good ghost stories, it serves as a reminder that history is never really dead, only sleeping — and sometimes, very loudly.

So, if you ever find yourself near the San Bernardo Mission late at night, take my advice: keep your distance. Because while it might be a lovely spot during the day, once darkness falls, you may find yourself running for City Hall, pursued by whispering voices and phantom stones. And in this age of skepticism, who knows — the ghosts may just be enjoying the last laugh.

In-text Citation: (Cervera López, 2021, pp. 42-43)