The Child Who Never Leaves the San Juan Bautista Church and Its Haunted Secrets

Churches. The world is full of them. Tall ones, squat ones, old ones, and a few quite ugly ones. Some are architectural wonders that inspire reverence for their sheer grandeur, while others make you want to ponder what went so terribly wrong during the design phase. But there's something to be said about old churches, the kind that have stood through the ages, those venerable, ancient structures with stone walls that have witnessed more drama than a daytime soap opera. And, it must be said, if there's one thing old churches are particularly good at—besides reminding you to mind your manners—it's holding on to a few ghost stories.

Enter the church of San Juan Bautista, a monument to faith and eerie happenings, located in the town where I spent my youth, learning catechism and attending mass. For those not in the know, this isn't some quaint little chapel where the most exciting thing to ever happen was Father Juan getting his robe caught on a pew. No, this is a place that has seen the march of history, with sections over 300 years old, though you’d never guess it from how solidly those walls still stand. It’s a titan of ancient architecture, standing defiant in the face of time and weather, like a grumpy old man scowling at the mischief of the modern world.

And then there’s the ghost girl. Ah yes, because every self-respecting, age-old church needs at least one wandering specter to give it character, a touch of local flavor. Without a ghost, what’s a church? Just a pile of stones and a weekly sermon, at best. But San Juan Bautista doesn’t disappoint. The townsfolk speak in hushed tones of a young girl who appears during the day—a daring departure from the usual specter’s shift, which usually involves the dead of night and a knack for flickering lights.

You’re admiring the weathered beauty of the old church, the carved stone arches, and the solemn serenity of the surroundings. Perhaps the air is cool, and a light breeze rustles the leaves of some ancient tree that has been plotting its escape from the nearby plaza since the Spanish Conquistadors first rolled into town. Then, out of nowhere, there she is. An eight-year-old girl in a pretty dress. Something delicate, embroidered, likely reminiscent of a past century when dressing children like mini aristocrats was all the rage.

She approaches you with a smile, innocent as a cherub painted on a fresco. And because it’s broad daylight, you don’t think twice about it. Maybe she’s lost, you assume. You ask the usual questions, trying not to feel too awkward around a child because, let’s face it, being questioned by someone under four feet tall can be unnerving. The girl, you’ll find, is quite conversational. She says she lives nearby and points with her little hand to a place, a white house no less, the kind of ghostly direction that even the most hard-nosed skeptic might take with a growing sense of discomfort.

But here’s where it gets weird. You turn to look where she’s pointing, and when you turn back, she’s gone. Just like that. No sound, no flurry of footsteps, not even a rustle of fabric. You could search the area, wander around with a look of befuddlement plastered on your face, but you won’t find her. She’s vanished into thin air. And that house she pointed at? Well, brace yourself: it's no white-picket-fence suburban dream. No, what you’ll find are crumbling ruins, remnants of a building long past its prime. That’s the kind of plot twist that leaves even the most cynical among us feeling thoroughly outplayed.

So, what’s the story here? Surely, there has to be some logical explanation. But in towns like these, history and the supernatural have a way of getting delightfully muddled. You see, the San Juan Bautista Church isn’t just an old religious site. Oh no, it stands on hallowed—and haunted—ground. Where today there is a large flagstone esplanade, perfect for Sunday strolls and incongruent modern festivities, there once lay the cemetery of the Military Prison. Imagine the scene centuries ago: Spanish soldiers, stern officers, and their families being laid to rest under what would become a place of worship.

Those who know their colonial history will tell you that life in those days was a grim affair, full of swords, sieges, and a particularly short life expectancy. Death was a frequent visitor, and it’s little wonder that the souls of the dearly—or not-so-dearly—departed might linger on, choosing to haunt the living or confuse them just for sport.

It raises an interesting question: How does one reconcile faith with the inexplicable? The church stands as a monument to divine mysteries, but let’s be honest—it's the tales like that of the girl in the pretty dress that really capture the imagination. After all, faith is one thing, but a good ghost story? Now, that’s a sermon we all want to hear.

So the next time you find yourself in the vicinity of San Juan Bautista, I’d recommend keeping your wits about you. Appreciate the beauty of a structure that’s defied centuries, marvel at the craftsmanship of a bygone era, and maybe, just maybe, keep an eye out for a child who shouldn’t be there. Because, in a town this old, history has a way of making itself known, sometimes in the most peculiar, hair-raising ways. Just try not to drop your rosary when she appears. You wouldn’t want to give her a reason to giggle.

In-text Citation: (Cervera López, 2021, p. 45)