Due to the graphic nature of this haunted place, listener discretion is advised this episode includes a dramatization of racism, lynching and capital punishment. We advise extreme caution for children under 13. Ines wasn't jealous of her little sister, Anita was dead after all, and it was sad, but white was he.

Nessa's favorite color and their family had turned the whole world wait for Anita's funeral. Her coffin was white and so was the table it stood on. The Spanish lace draped over her was white, as were the pale bone colored candles placed above it innocent. Her sisters stood beside the small box that held Anita's corpse. Six girls, Paul bearing for someone even younger than them. There was a procession to El Campo Santo Anita's final resting place, a violin and an accordion played plaintively as the neighbor boys threw firecrackers.

Inez had always felt invisible. As the second to last child, Anita had been the beloved baby sister. Now that title belong to Venus, but she wouldn't get to enjoy it. Not while everyone cried. Nobody cared how she felt. Ines hovered at the edge of the proceedings, doing her best to look tragic when she realized there was a man standing beside her.

He was so tall, his long frame blocked out the sun. The man said hello and asked her why she wasn't crying. He stuck out her chin. She refused to be ashamed, especially by someone so shabbily dressed. She told him so. The man laughed and asked if she wanted to be the center of attention. Ines didn't answer about the sullen look on her face all but confirmed it. The man told Ines that all eyes would be on her soon enough.

Ines turned to look at him again, a glint of excitement in her eye. The tall man nodded and placed his large hand on her small shoulder. Then Ines fell to the ground.

The crowd converged on him as trying to help. For once, she had all the attention, but she wasn't there to see it and would never be again.

Welcome to Haunted Places, a podcast original, I'm Greg Polson. Every Thursday, I take you to the scariest, eeriest, most haunted real places on Earth. You can find all episodes of haunted places for free on Spotify and every Tuesday, make sure to check out urban legends. These special episodes of Haunted Places are available exclusively on Spotify this week. Join me on a supernatural journey to Al Santo, a 19th century cemetery that sits at the very heart of San Diego, California's old town, and discover why to this day it's haunted.

We'll cross the trolley tracks to the old cemetery right after this. I haunted places, listeners. Did you enjoy last year's Daily Urban Legends series then? We have good news. Urban Legends has been running as a weekly bonus series exclusively on Spotify. Check the Haunted Places Feed for a new Urban Legends episode every Tuesday hitched a ride on a haunted bus, unravel the ribbon tied around a mysterious woman and be sure to follow haunted places on Spotify to get all new urban legends episodes every week.

Before San Diego was the land of SeaWorld and kitesurfing, it belonged to the Kumeyaay people. They were farmers. But when Spanish colonizers settled there in 1769, the ecology of what would later be called California was upended. The city we know as San Diego began as a Fort and Franciscan mission built in 1769, called the Mission San Diego de Alcala.

When Mexico won its independence in 1821, it pushed northward to eliminate the Spanish mission system. They divided Southern California into private ranchos and evicted indigenous nations like the Kumeyaay from their settlements. But the Kumeyaay resisted chasing Mexicans from the ranchos. By 1842, only San Diego remained in Mexican control until the Americans arrived. San Diego was a major battleground in the Mexican-American War. And when the dust settled in 1848, the fledgling settlement became part of the United States. There was no greater erosion of native authority in California than in the mid 19th century, when treaties were made and broken like flimsy clay pottery.

The indigenous Californians and Mexicans who lived near the mission, San Diego de Alcala, were suddenly a disadvantaged minority in the United States. In 1849, just one year after Mission San Diego became occupied by America, a Roman Catholic cemetery was established in the center of San Diego's old town. The burial ground was known as El Campo Santo. The Hollyfield notable figures in town were buried there, but sober criminals and freedom fighters sometimes after being forced to dig their own graves.

This was a spiritually tempestuous place, and it only became more so after the San Diego city government paid a streetcar line straight through it. Yankee Jim was an easy man to live with. He'd gone boom and bust in the gold rush, so he knew a thing or two about humility. He was fun and spontaneous, especially when he was drunk and he was nearly always drunk. He was two days into a whiskey bender when he convinced his friends Will and James to steal a boat.

The little rowboat was the only one of its kind in San Diego, and the owner is Joe Stuart. And in Wall were very proud of it. They wouldn't let anyone use it, especially Yankee Jim. He was an outsider. They said, even though he had family in town, Yankee Jim didn't intend to keep the boat. He just wanted to borrow it to give Joe an innocent lesson in hubris and to teach himself about boats in the process with enough study and time, he thought maybe he could build his own.

Jim told Wil and James to sneak into the harbor and meet him by the water. They'd go for a pleasant sail, then set the boat adrift near the key. No harm, no foul. But it was hard to be sneaky when you were drunk. Will tumbled off the dock and into the water as he tried to get into the boat, just as Jim and James wrestled him back in, they saw lights turn on at the harbor master's office.

They wrote quickly out into the bay, searching for some evidence of pursuit. But pursuit never came. So they had a soothing and peaceful float, drinking like fish while catching a fish or two after the whiskey ran dry. They rode back in and landed on the shore. Then they set the boat free and watched it drift toward the docks. In the distance. Yankee Jim thought he'd gotten away with it, but he wasn't as sly as he thought.

He was a large man, six foot three inches without his hat. He stood out like a sore thumb, or, in this case, a giant in a tiny rowboat. Sheriff Haraszti picked him up three days later, claiming that the master had witnessed his little joyride. But behind Haraszti, still a deputy sheriff, Phillip Crosthwaite and Jim couldn't have been more relieved to see him. He knew having a godfather in the sheriff's office would come in handy.

But it wasn't so handy, the trial was swift and sure and it wasn't about the boat. The judge solemnly declared that a reliable person had reported that Jim had murdered prospector's in the Goldfields Yanqui.

Jim was sentenced to be hung by the neck until dead. Jim laughed. They must be trying to scare him, right. He couldn't hurt a fly. This must have been a prank of Crossway.

It's doing good. Old godfather Philip trying to keep his boy Jim on the straight and narrow. The punch line never came, but execution day did Yanqui.

Jim tried to laugh as the noose went around his neck. These deputies sure were committed to their chest.

He even laughed as the cart pulled away beneath his feet.

Jim struggled, but it was no use.

His fate wasn't in his hands, so all he could do was laugh at the absurdity and injustice of it all.

He laughed and laughed and laughed until the crushing pressure around his windpipe suddenly stopped. Jim expected pain, but all he felt was released open-air room to breathe and to laugh. He threw his head back and guffawed. As he floated above the gallows.

Jim had beaten them. There was a punch line and he found it. He followed his corpse as it was carted to the Roman Catholic cemetery, El Campo Santo. He was glad he'd converted shortly before his death. It was a picturesque spot where he could watch everyone go by while he rested there and watch he did.

As the years passed, San Diego grew until it encroached on the graveyard.

Jim liked to float into the town to visit his former Gallow's now turned to stately manor called Stately House, and he'd like watching the horses pull the streetcars down the avenue that ran nearby the graveyard. Even if the new road displaced some of his ghostly neighbors, what he didn't like was the pavement.

They'd given it a very unimaginative name, San Diego Avenue. It brought those loud and strange machines, those automobiles, far too close to his home. Nenke Jim was an easy man to live with, even in death. But there was some things he couldn't abide.

Hubris was one of them. He began experimenting with the contraptions, seeing which parts they needed and which they didn't. When he was well versed, he began to poke at the vehicle's left next to the cemetery.

He'd remove a starter or a brake pedal and see if the driver noticed they were fascinating machines and their malfunctions turned normal people into panicked egomaniacs. Jim had to laugh at that.

The more things change, the more they stayed the same.

The years passed and the cars got smaller and sleeker, they had strange picture windows in them and means of making music, Jim wasn't too impressed with all that. It was still the engines he liked best.

Well, until the remote starters appeared, it was frustrating to watch the rich men and women hit the little button on their keys.

As they approached, they realised something was wrong too quickly before they even got in the car. It wasn't any fun and all Jim had left now was fun. If he sat still for too long, it tore him apart. So just this.

Once Yanqui, Jim decided to fiddle with a car. While it was driving, he picked a red one driven by a pretty blonde.

As it sped down San Diego Avenue, Jim flicked his hand and the engine inside fell apart. The car careened and curved, skidding all the way to Waili House and crashing into the manor's front lawn right where Jim was executed.

All those years ago, the engines smoked as a blonde woman struggled to get her seatbelt to release. What a shame that Jim had locked the car. The fire started. She began to scream, Yank, Jim, just smile. The woman's death was cruel and unfair, but maybe she would learn to laugh about it just like him.

Santiago Yankee Jim Robinson is perhaps El Campo Santos most famous ghost. He stole San Diego's only rowboat in August 1852. He was quickly picked up with his co-conspirators, James Gray Loring and William Harris, and was flippant in his replies to authorities. After all, he'd only stolen a boat. But Jim didn't know that whispers of his reputation preceded him. It was said that he'd robbed and killed prospectors in gold country. We don't know if these rumors are true, but Yankee Jim certainly didn't seem to believe he was about to be executed for grand larceny.

He assumed it was an attempt to scare him straight, even as the court announced the verdict for his hanging. And he certainly never expected his godfather, the deputy sheriff, to execute the order when its accomplices only got one year of jail time. Today, Yankee Jim is said to haunt both his grave and Elka Santo and the neighboring Whaley house where he was executed. He is sometimes seen as a full apparition and at other times just his footsteps can be spotted striding through the cemetery.

He died still unsure if this execution was anything more than a cruel prank. But now he pulls pranks of his own. Over the years, surrounding buildings have experienced mysterious power outages, and visitors who park beside the cemetery have reported their cars would not start upon their return.

Perhaps if they listen closely as their engines failed, they might have heard an eerie laugh coming from Yankee Jim's grave. Up next, one of El Santo's more peaceful burials turns sinister listeners. If you love hearing about haunted places and their haunting histories, you'll love podcast network's newest original series, Haunted Places, Ghost Stories, Haunted Places. Ghost Stories premieres October 1st and its very own feet. Join host Alistair Murden as he retells the scariest, most hair raising ghost stories ever imagined.

These chilling tales were written by some of literature's greatest storytellers from all around the world, including Japan, India, the U.K., even ancient Rome. Alastair brings to light stone cold classics like The Kitbag by Algernon Blackwood, a sinister account of a condemned murderer's final wish and the lengths he go to fulfill it, and the misery of a Spanish tale of a wandering musician who hears a terrifyingly beautiful song and a burned out monastery and is doomed to capture its notes until he dies.

New episodes air every week. On Thursday, you can find and follow haunted places, ghost stories free on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts. And don't forget, October is our favorite month and one of our busiest. So make sure to search podcast network in the Spotify Search Bar to see all our new shows.

Now back to the story. While El Santo serves as the final resting place for several important civic leaders and criminals, some of its most tragic graves belong to children.

Infant mortality was high in the 19th century, but each loss was keenly felt.

At the time, it was all too common to see all white funeral processions indicating the death of a child snake their way through town.

But for some, the death of a child was only the beginning of a larger tragedy. The world had taken Margarita's child, they wrapped her in a box and buried her miles away from where she lived, Marguerita had wanted so much more for her little four year old honor. She wanted it to bloom under the San Diego sun. Her daughter was already so inquisitive, especially about insects and nature. She wanted to learn everything she could about the world, but she would never get the chance.

Now, Marguerita didn't have the stomach to watch them lower onna into the ground. She paid for the headstone, but she couldn't bring herself to visit it. If she went on a would really be gone. They would get one day a year to connect with each other. But when DIA de los Muertos did, they would live in two separate places. It was an agony no parent should ever have to bear. She leaned on the usual mourning traditions, withdrawing from the world and draping herself in black like she was a statue in the graveyard.

But such a somber performance did little to communicate the magnitude of her grief. She could not maintain her stoicism, however, when the local priest told her the graves in the cemetery had been disturbed. He claimed that Onas was fine. But Margarita wondered if he was sparing her a harsher truth. Now, when she dreamed of honor, her little girl always asked her the same question. It hung in the hot desert air, clear and cruel as de.

Why haven't you visited? Marguerita jolted awake and his eyes had been so clear in her dream, she could see the pain in them when she asked her to visit the small crinkle in the skin, her absence was hurting her child. She couldn't keep avoiding the cemetery. The sun was still hiding. His Marguerita slipped into a dress as dark as night. The thick fabric felt reassuring under her hands. Marguerita had made the dress herself, dense black cotton with no ornamentation.

It was an expression of her grief. The sleeves held your tears. The ruffles were reminders of the soft waves, and on his hair she pulled a scrap of lace across her face and topped it with a wide brimmed black hat. Marguerita glided through her house like a spectre, and as Dawn slowly peered in through the windows, she walked into the soft light of a new morning and left the door open behind her. Her child needed her, and there was no room to think about anything else.

Marguerita walked through town, the perfect picture of a devastated Mörner, but truthfully, she felt almost nothing. Her insides had been scraped clean, leaving nothing behind but some primal maternal instinct. The minutes stretched into hours as she walked sweat beaded down her skin, her throat burned. Even if she had access to water, it wouldn't quench or thirst. Her legs started to ache from the distance, so she rarely journeyed into the middle of town. She lived her life on the fringes.

It was easier that way. There were fewer disputes with people when people hardly knew who you were. Marguerite his heart leapt into her throat when she saw the small crosses of El Santo come into view. Marguerita dabbed at the sweat that had collected over her face. She wanted to look nice for their reunion. A small white cross and a headstone marked her daughter's burial place. No name had been written on the wood, but Marguerita recognized it instantly. She knelt at the stone and wept because someone had disturbed the grave.

The soil was clumped and uneven, like someone had just refilled it. Marguerita leaned down in all her finery and began to dig. Something was wrong. She could feel it. She clawed at the earth with her hands until she reached the small pine box. The nails were slightly ajar. Margarita's breath quivered and shook, shame crushing her heart. What horrors had she allowed to occur? She slowly pried the lid open to see her baby again. Ana looked sweet, like she was only sleeping, but her beautiful dress had been torn open and the small necklace Margherita had buried her with had been ripped from her neck.

Margarita tried to control the frantic rise and fall of her chest as she removed the veil from her head. She could do her dead daughter wrapping her in black lace she gently placed on her back in the coffin to bury her again. Marguerita stayed on his grave, singing softly to her, telling her every story she could think of. Sweat slicked down her dusty skin like a snake moving through water. But Marguerita did not tap at it. Her vanity was not important.

Now she needed to show honor her commitment. She would not fail her child again. Her knees grew stiff as she felt her body grow tighter under the sun.

She was drying out, the moisture was pouring out of her skin and evaporating into the air, she hoped that it would save Ana from more pain, that the worms and maggots would gorge themselves on the water she dropped into the soil instead of her daughter's little face. Hours stretched into an eternity as the sun went into hiding, night crept up on Marguerita. She had been so focused on her daughter's safety that she had never considered that time might still move.

Even if it did move, she would not.

As dawn broke, Marguerita felt her eyelids fluttering shut, but no matter how exhausted she was, she could not risk something happening to the grave. She slapped herself several times. The sting of her hand, sharp like a scorpion, was enough to keep her eyes open, her intestines twisted into knots, searching for any sign of food. She forced the thoughts away through sheer force of will. She had a duty to her daughter to this space. Negligence had already cast its cold, smirking face on the spot.

She would not let it get a stronger foothold. Marguerita remained in place for days, then weeks, then months. Her skin turned to leather, her bones hardened in place.

She was a living statue. She could not move, but she could still breathe. And with every breath she made sure that Onas grave was a safe place. Guarded by her mother's love, she stayed through every twitch and pang. She steeled yourself against thoughts of doubt. She ignored the pleas from townspeople to move. She would not. Even after she breathed her last breath, her spirit remained. She would stand guard over honor for the rest of time, anything to protect her precious daughter.

El Santo was an unorthodox cemetery for many reasons, but the most important one is its location, right at the heart of San Diego's busy old town. This means that visitors can be found there at any hour of the day. Mourners, as well as paranormal investigators frequent the place, and full body apparitions in Victorian garb are said to be common even in daylight. So much so that visitors have mistaken them for park employees in costume. But of particular note are the sightings of a Victorian woman bent over a grave where she sits unmoving, lost in her own world.

The most troubling aspect of Santo's busy location is the desecration of its graves throughout the years. Vandals have looted jewellery and valuables from gravesites, while the cultists have been known to bury spel jars and other animal sacrifices in the graves of children.

Paranormal investigator Sally Richards has recounted her experience in removing these desecrating items from El Santo.

Her group recorded several disembodied voices and sounds during the session, including that of a child coughing. The sound immediately stopped when the bell jar was removed from the grave.

Coming up, the darkest story in El Compass, Santos history comes to life. Now back to the story.

The difference between a riot, a revolt and a revolution is decided by the victor and the powers that be rarely lose. Such was the case of coupé new chief Antonio. He hoped to unite the indigenous peoples of Southern California to fight against the oppression they experienced at the hands of the United States government in 1851. But he faced trials at every turn. They were being taxed without any representation in local government, and the law protected the whites who murdered indigenous people.

Instead of punishing them, Ghara decided enough was enough and attempted to build a coalition of tribes to expel the Americans from Southern California. He hoped that the two llerenas would seize control of Santa Barbara. But the two, Lorena's, Louis, Zeno's and Kaya's, refused to fight, leaving Ghara only with his forces and those of the quitte kakapos and cameos. They were severely outgunned, and a series of bloody skirmishes thinned their numbers. Ghara tried to enlist the help of Juan Antonio chief of the capias, but the man laid a trap for Carra instead and handed him over to white authorities.

Ghara and his son were tried for murder, robbery and treason under the U.S. justice system, even though they'd never sworn allegiance to the United States. Making war was not murder, his defense lawyer insisted. Still, Garza was convicted on all charges. What happened next is what gives El Campo Santo its most tragic story. Lauder's had spent hours on her makeup, she carefully outlined her features in white paint until she looked like the most beautiful calavera to ever walk the procession from Waili House to El Santo.

She snapped a selfie on her phone but didn't want to post it until she'd done her duty to her ancestors. Her family made the journey for every DIA de los Muertos, loaded up with marigolds and snacks for the dead. They didn't have family in El Campo Santo as far as they knew, but it felt right to honor the old spirits the city had oppressed, as well as their own friends at home. Lourdes, as I slid right past the garish Whaley house.

It was nothing more than a monument to violence. She'd heard the stories since she was a child. They'd hanged people in front of that house, and the owners themselves had been present for many of the executions. Nothing said respectability, quite like bodies swaying in front of stately properties. As much as the patrician owners like to pretend their history was marked with blood blood of the cooping, you and Kumeyaay, who fought to be represented natives, were buried in El Campo Santo, but they didn't receive the same treatment as their white neighbors.

While Irish men had their histories written out on plaques, many native markers only listed their race, age and gender if they were lucky. Lourdes like to think about the people that society had chosen to forget.

She thought of Magdalena, the buried native woman, that Lourdes made it a friend of four every year. Magdalena was 21 when she died, almost the same age as Lourdes. She had probably been fluent in Spanish and several native languages. Lourdes, on the other hand, could understand Spanish well enough, but her family loved to tease her about how inelegant the words sounded when they stumbled from her lips. As she moved with the crowd, she pictured Magdalena walking alongside her, a beautiful young woman with long black hair that's shown in the sunlight.

Lourdes Reverie was interrupted when a tall native man with a long braid pushed past her and her imaginary companion, Lourdes, watched as he strode past. There was a nobility to him, but it was tempered by a strange vacancy like he was there, but only in spirit.

Then someone else jostled past her, heading in the native man's direction.

Two white men pushed through the crowd, laughing and reeking of whiskey out of place and disrespectful.

Lourdes nudged her family, tilting her head in the direction of the strangers. Her mother shook her head. Florida's tilted her head more forcefully. Her mother told her to stop. But of course, that just made her more insistent. She weaved around small children and the elderly, trying to keep track of these uninvited guests. She didn't like the look of either of them. They were up to something. And that distractive native man didn't seem to know it.

Her mother ran after her, catching her daughter's arm. Just then, a shot rang out from behind.

The Lourdes flinched. Her mother covered her ears. Blind panic raced through the crowd for a moment. But then it was swallowed by laughter.

A group of young boys were throwing firecrackers, passing along extras to people in the crowd. Lourdes breathed a sigh of relief and turned to her mother.

She kissed her head and ran off before she could tell her otherwise, waving her cell phone as a promise that she would be safe and quick. Her mother looked on, worried as Lourdes ran toward the cemetery. Something was wrong. She could feel it. Ladas crept through the quiet area of El Santo. Up ahead, she could see that the white men had caught up to the native man who now held a shovel in his hand. It was a strange time to dig a grave.

Then she caught a metallic glimmer. One of the white men had a gun to the native man's back. Lords wanted to intervene, but fear kept her hidden. She'd expected rowdy drunks, not murderers, but two white men called the native man Antonio.

She hated the way their mouths curled patronisingly around the syllables, like they were talking to a child and Tony was digging a rectangle large enough to hold a body, and Lourdes had to stifle a gasp. Was he being forced to dig his own grave?

Lourdes was close enough to see the man's soft face. He looked like her uncle Carlos only if the joy had been drained from him. Lourdes didn't know what to do. But she couldn't sit there and do nothing. She took a deep breath and pulled out her phone. She pressed record and walked to the man. They were laughing loudly like it was a backyard barbecue and not an execution. Lourdes Foot stumbled in the dirt and a pair of steely green eyes turned to look at her.

A gasp slipped from her lips. It was the man holding the gun. He tipped his hat to her with a ghoulish smile, then went back to staring at Antonio. Lourdes felt a grall escape her throat. She was barely five foot five inches in heels when she had a force of personality that scared the crap out of her six foot three inch X in the firmest voice she could muster. She told the men to stop. She hit the nine and the one on her phone, her finger hovering over the last one.

More guns would likely make the situation worse, but she didn't know what else to do, the other man turned to her as his partner kept his weapon on Antonio. Then he raised his own gun. Lourdes felt her heart pounding in her ears. She moved her thumb slightly to the left to hit the go button on her screen, holding their gaze with a strength only primal fear could conjure.

Lourdes told the men that everyone online would see that the dark laughs that bubbled up from their chests told her they didn't care. She saw Antonio's forms and then fall into resignation. She cried out the gun fired. Which gun? She wasn't sure. She braced for the pain to burn through her torso, but nothing came. Lourdes looked down at her chest. She was intact. She looked at the grave, ready to take in the sight of a tragic massacre.

But nobody was there. She was alone. She was saying the men were gone, or perhaps they'd never been there to begin with her phone. Broadcast's reaction feed was filled with question marks and confused emojis as the lens focused on a single grave marker that bore a man's name. The latest comment read. What am I supposed to be looking at? And who's Antonio Ghara? Legend says that Chief Antonio Ghara was forced to dig his own grave before he was shot, falling into it unceremoniously as a crowd looked on, witnesses at El Santo claimed they'd seen this tragic moment play out in front of them, accompanied by the smell of gunpowder and sound of shots in the dark.

Like his death, Garner's last words would haunt California for centuries to come.

Gentlemen, I ask your pardon for all my offenses and expect yours in return. LCO Santo housed over 400 bodies by 1880, but San Diego's growth carried on just as swiftly. And in 1889, the growing city built a streetcar line directly across part of the burial ground. In 1942, the streetcar line was paved over to become San Diego Avenue, leaving at least 18 graves beneath the asphalt. Eventually, remote imaging of the ground beneath the street was used to set up small metal discs where the bodies are buried.

But the discs bear no names or dates, only the word gravesite. It's not just a historical affront, but a spiritual one, too, without records of those who have passed. It's difficult for local observers of DIA de los Muertos to mourn them properly. Still, the cemeteries filled with a Labrador by October 31st covered with food, candles and flowers. Hopefully the spirits have some company, even in their anonymity.

One goes to expect that a cemetery will be haunted, especially one as old as El Santo, but the Hollyfield has been witness to many injustices in its long history, from the unfair executions of Chief Ghara and Yankee Jim to the loss of too many children. El Campo Santo remains a solemn place even when it sits in a busy tourist district. There is a sadness here, a weight of history and tragedy of those taken too soon by both fate and man.

With so much forgotten pain, healing cannot begin, will you bear witness to it or will compel Santo force you to look? Thanks again for tuning into haunted places. We'll be back on Thursday with a new episode. And don't forget to come back on Tuesday for our Urban Legends series available only on Spotify. You can find more episodes of Haunted Places and all of the podcast originals for free on Spotify, not only to Spotify, already have all of your favorite music, but now Spotify is making it easy for you to enjoy all of your favorite podcast originals like Haunted Places for free from your phone desktop or smart speaker to stream haunted places on Spotify.

Just open the app, tap, browse and type haunted places in the search bar. I'll see you next time. Haunted Places was created by Max Cutler and it's a podcast. Studio's original executive producers include Max and Ron Cutler, Sound Design by Kenny Hobbs with production assistance by Ron Shapiro, Carly Madden and Bruce Kaktovik. This episode of Haunted Places was written by Lil Deridder and Jennifer Rachet with Writing Assistants by Greg Castro. I'm Greg Polson. Don't forget to follow haunted places, ghost stories for the spookiest thrillers ever imagined, collected from all around the world and all throughout time.

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