Marlene Jaxon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That’s correct. Ghosts helped me write this book.

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On July 18th, 2022, something otherworldly happened to me inside the El Campo Santo Cemetery, which I have yet been able to fully explain. Some (or all) of the 477 departed souls who reside there coerced me into writing this story about their home—Old Town, San Diego.

 

Old Town is not only known as the “birthplace of California,” but it’s also a popular tourist attraction. It’s an historical state park with restored and reconstructed 19th-century buildings currently being used as museums, shops, and cafés. A shady village square sits in the center, and festive Mexican restaurants border the perimeter.

 

My husband, Harold, and I make monthly trips from our home in Arizona to San Diego, California, where we keep a sailboat. Despite the marina’s close proximity to Old Town, we had not visited for at least 15 years, nor did either of us have any previous knowledge of the fascinating graveyard located within: El Campo Santo—The Holy Field—founded in 1849.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We discovered El Campo Santo, the city’s first Catholic cemetery, is situated on a tiny slice of bare dirt between tourist shops along busy San Diego Avenue. Its low adobe walls, weathered headstones, wooden crosses, and white picket fences emit an eerie vibe even on the sunniest summer day. An informational sign tells the disturbing story of how a horse-drawn streetcar line bisected the original burial grounds, forcing many of the inhabitants to literally be cast out to the street. Inconspicuous metal markers (about the size of quarters) in the adjacent sidewalk and roadway note their graves below.

 

While wandering the cemetery, an indescribable energy possessed me, as I spent the next hour reading each grave plaque. I was drawn into the curious lives of the inhabitants. Several had been violently and unjustly killed, and too many had tragically died during childhood. The experience left me strangely emotionally drained.

 

That evening, the souls of El Campo Santo infiltrated my sleep with haunting images of hangings, shootings, and coffins. The following day, I informed Harold I needed to return to the cemetery for reasons I couldn’t explain. My sweet husband declared me “cuckoo” (a common occurrence) but humored me anyway.

 

On that subsequent visit, I quieted my mind at each grave and closed my eyes, waiting for insight or a message. After much solemn contemplation, I finally announced to Harold, “These people want their stories told so they are not forgotten.”  An entire afternoon spent investigating the park made me realize it wasn’t only true of the El Campo inhabitants, but also the other former residents of Old Town. That’s when I knew I had to write this book.

 

There are two other facets of this decision that I find peculiar. The first being my lifelong distaste for all things having to do with the “Wild West,” such as pioneers, gunslingers, cowboys, stagecoaches, schoolmarms, and the like. I’ve never enjoyed watching Western shows of any kind, nor even listening to country-western music. So imagine my surprise when, upon setting foot in El Campo Santo, my interest in the 1800s settlement of California inexplicably exploded. After hundreds of hours of research, part of me is now happily, irrevocably planted in that place and time period.

 

Secondly, before that July day, ghosts were merely a fun concept to me. As a former science teacher, empirical evidence has always been a necessary component for my realist (some argue cynical), analytical mind. That is no longer the case. The Whaley House—touted as America’s most haunted house—is located in Old Town, approximately a block away from El Campo Santo. Coincidentally (or not?), the cemetery and the ghostly house share a common inhabitant: An outlaw who was hanged on the homesite is buried in the graveyard!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Over the past three years, I have toured the Whaley House three times and have personally experienced the restless spirits residing there, but I’ve never been frightened by them. My now regular visits to Old Town feel like outings with cherished friends. The palpable presence of its past citizens is not only normal but comforting to me.

 

Lastly, I must extend special thanks to my supernatural soulmates. Since first setting foot in their Holy Field, my tenacious ghost writers have driven this book to completion by pestering me day and night with tales from their remarkable lives. Much appreciation to them all!