The Town Square’s Poltergeist Problem

Picture a small, timeworn town square that dates back to the year 1703, with its cobblestones and low buildings that have soaked up over 300 years of history. This place was once the central square of a Presidio—a military fort for those who may not be aware—and if it could talk, it would surely have more stories to tell than I’d ever have patience to listen to. But then, these old towns are like that. They’re the sorts of places where secrets seem to seep from the walls and where you can’t help but feel that, after sundown, the past and present might well bump into each other on the way down the street.

Not that long ago—say, five or six years back—I found myself in a peculiar position, working at the Municipal Palace. Now, if you’ve never had the opportunity to work in a municipal palace of a 300-year-old town, let me tell you, it’s a mix of both intrigue and mind-numbing boredom. This is a place where, depending on the day, you might be handed some tax records from 1910 and expected to act thrilled, or you might get roped into listening to a local’s rambling tales of paranormal run-ins and other eerie bits of lore. On one such afternoon, I’d heard enough humdrum for the day and decided to pay a visit to a group of soldiers stationed nearby. These soldiers were occupying a small, unimpressive building—a former grocery store that now, at a stretch, served as a barracks.

When I arrived, I thought I’d try to liven things up a bit by asking them if they’d ever experienced anything strange in that old, creaking building or around the square itself. Because let’s be honest: anyone working in a place as drenched in history as this one should expect a few inexplicable bumps in the night. I figured if there were ghosts to be found, the night shift would be the time they’d be shuffling about.

The young soldier on guard looked at me with a bit of amusement, but mostly the sort of vacant expression of someone waiting for a more specific question. So, to be a bit clearer, I cut to the chase and asked if they’d seen or heard ghosts. He took a moment to think—probably checking to see if I was joking—then shrugged, almost as if I’d asked him if he’d seen a stray cat outside.

“Oh yes,” he said. “We’ve had a few encounters.”

Encounters, he said, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, like losing power during a storm. And before I could pry, he dove into one particular tale that would make even the most hardened cynic’s hair stand on end.

It was shortly after they’d been assigned to the place, and one night while on guard, one of his fellow soldiers had heard something. Now, when you’re in a place like this—a former grocery store, mind you, converted hastily into a barracks—the odd creak or whisper of the wind isn’t enough to spook anyone. But this was different. The soldier claimed he heard the unmistakable sound of chains dragging. And if that weren’t odd enough, a woman’s voice—a low, eerie murmur—seemed to echo faintly alongside the clinking chains.

Naturally, his superior officer—who, I’m sure, was every bit as spooked as the rest of them—ordered him to follow the noise. You know, as one does. Following the sounds of chains in the dead of night isn’t exactly what most soldiers would expect to find in their job description, but orders are orders. So, off he went, marching across the square toward the origin of the sound. Step by step, he moved toward the center, and the sound, as if teasing him, moved on as well, leading him in an eerie waltz through the night.

He said that the noise seemed to lead him toward the square’s central kiosk, where the echo of chains grew louder. Yet, as he reached the kiosk, it slithered off, as if beckoning him to continue. So he did, following it across the square and down toward a shadowed street that runs just behind the old palace. The soldiers call this place “El Rincón del Diablo”—Devil’s Corner, for the uninitiated. Now, I ask you: if you’re already spooked out of your wits by the sound of phantom chains and a woman’s voice floating through the air, is “Devil’s Corner” the sort of place you’d choose to investigate further? I wouldn’t. But this brave soldier soldiered on, watching the shadows and listening as the sounds led him down the dark street and then, without warning, fell silent, vanishing into thin air.

The soldier, shaken but undeterred, returned to report the encounter to his chief, who, to my amazement, apparently took it in stride. Maybe they had bigger things to worry about. Or maybe they were as superstitious as the next person and didn’t want to give the story too much life, lest it happen again. But it didn’t end there. According to the soldier I was speaking to, the chains and murmuring voice didn’t vanish for good; they only paused. Every now and then, especially when the nights grew quiet and the square lay still, those same sounds would return: chains clinking, a woman’s voice murmuring in the air, whispering who knows what secrets from the depths of time.

Naturally, I tried to find a logical explanation for all this. Perhaps a mischievous local had a set of chains handy and enjoyed spooking the soldiers. Or maybe it was simply a trick of the wind bouncing off those old walls, creating an auditory illusion. But let’s be honest: what chain-dragging prankster could carry out a routine like this, in the dead of night, without being seen or caught even once? And the murmuring voice? Well, short of a well-rehearsed ghost audition, I’m at a loss.

But this is the way of old places, isn’t it? Whether it’s stories of hidden tunnels, ghostly figures in doorways, or sounds that have no earthly origin, places like this square—steeped in hundreds of years of history—don’t give up their secrets easily. They sit quietly, allowing their mysteries to swirl just beneath the surface, to be discovered only by those with an open ear and perhaps a touch of courage.

So, if you find yourself in an old town square, and you hear a faint clink of chains or catch a whispered voice in the dead of night, my advice? Leave it be. Some tales, some voices, are best left to the shadows and the past, where they belong.

In-text Citation: (Cervera López, 2021, p. 49)