October 31, 2025 • 30 mins
Step into Panteón de Belén with The Grim as host Kristin explores one of Mexico's most haunted cemeteries on this special Halloween and Día de los Muertos episode.
Beneath gothic arches and jasmine-scented air lies a world where faith, folklore, and the restless dead intertwine. Built to preserve life as part of the Hospital of Belén, this sacred ground became a city of the dead after the 1833 cholera epidemic.
Discover the legends:
- The Vampire of Guadalajara and his cursed tree
- Victoriana Hurtado's tragic tale
- The spectral boy Nachito
- The Lovers of Belén—united only in death
- Ghostly carriages, buried treasure, and pirate spirits
As the veil thins on All Hallows' Eve, candlelit altars blaze and marigold offerings guide souls home for one more night. Where Día de los Muertos transforms sorrow into celebration.
📍 Panteón de Belén, Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico
⚰️ Founded: 1848
🕯️ Where fear and celebration meet
Perfect for: Día de los Muertos enthusiasts, Mexico travel planners, vampire folklore lovers, Halloween listeners
🎧 Venture through the veil with The Grim.
Support The Grim by buying a cup of our next Grave Grind!
https://buymeacoffee.com/kristinlopes
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Transcript
Episode Transcript
Available transcripts are automatically generated. Complete accuracy is not guaranteed.
SPEAKER_00 (00:13):
Green morning and welcome to the Grim.
I'm your host, Kristen.
On today's episode, we'll beopening the gate and entering
the Pantalon de Bilin, locatedin Guadalajara, Mexico.
The aroma of coffee mingles inthe air.
The gates stand open.
Step carefully.
It's time to descend into thehauntings of history.
(00:36):
It's all Halloween's Eve, dearlisteners, my favorite night of
the year.
If that wasn't already obvious,as the veil thins, many soon
will be turning their thoughtsto Christmas or Thanksgiving
once the clock strikes midnight.
But not this host.
For me, the night only deepens.
(01:01):
Crossing into the land of thedead through colonial arches lit
by flames, we find ourselvesthis Diego de Mos Muertos in
Mexico's most haunted burialground, the Pantalon de Bilin.
Its winding paths are perfumedby jasmine and lined with marble
crypts that rest within a sacredgarden of gothic neoclassical
(01:22):
grace.
It's beautiful, haunting, andeverything you could ask for in
a restless city of the dead.
Yet the grounds weren'toriginally meant for the dearly
departed.
Once this place was meant topreserve life, not cradle its
end, the Pantalon de Bilin beganas a part of the Hospital of
Bilin Complex, a vast charitableproject envisioned by Fray
(01:44):
Antonio Acade, who sought toheal a city ravaged by plague
and famine.
In the late 18th century,Guadalajara suffered under the
weight of relentless epidemicsand devastating food shortages.
The existing hospitalsoverflowed with the sick, and by
royal decree the Spanish crownordered a creation of a new
facility.
(02:04):
Permission was granted by KingFerdinand VI in 1751, and by
1793 the Hospital Bellin openedits doors, a sanctuary for the
living in a city forevershadowed by death.
But the boundary between theliving and the dead wouldn't
hold for long.
When cholera swept throughGuadalajara in 1833, the bodies
(02:26):
outnumbered the beds.
The city needed a burial groundbeyond its crowded limits.
The orchards behind the hospitalran transformed into sacred
soil, giving rise to what becameknown as the Pantalon de Bilin,
a name that would echo throughcenturies of mourning.
Construction began in 1848 underarchitect Manuel Gomez Ibera,
(02:46):
the same visionary who designedthe twin towers of Guadalajara's
cathedral.
The cemetery was divided intotwo realms, one for the wealthy
and one for the common soul.
At the heart stood the chapel ofSanta Paula, beneath which lay
the remains of Jalisco's mostdistinguished figures.
A subterranean panthenon of theillustrious and the forgotten
(03:07):
alike.
For decades this crypt served asa civic shrine until 1957, when
the honored dead weretransferred to the Rotunda de la
Haliasensius at Rustrius nearby,originally known as the Santa
Paula Cemetery of the BatonTibellin, opened in 1848 and
closed to new burials in 1896.
Its formal name faded, but itslegend endured.
(03:30):
Today the common section hasvanished, its land claimed by
the Tower of MedicalSpecialities belonging to the
University of Guadalajara, butthe upper portion remains
intact.
The marble crypts, carvedangels, and the whispering
trees, they endure as a museumof the macabre, a place where
faith, sorrow, and superstitionintertwine.
(03:53):
The grounds can only be enteredthrough a guided tour, with
photography permitted only insmall measure, a restriction
that shrouds the place in evengreater mystery.
Visitors often find themselveswondering what truly lies within
its high stone walls.
Locals ever proud of theirhistory and hauntings encourage
travelers to take the tour, andit's not hard to see why.
(04:15):
When a guide begins with thewords, remember that legends are
untrue, but the real truth isthe history.
You know you're in for ahauntingly good time.
Visitors describe the Pantalonde Bilin as a matic,
unforgettable, and one of themost historical landmarks in all
of Guadalajara.
Yet before you can worry aboutits ghostly residence or the
infamous vampire, there'ssomething else you might want to
(04:38):
watch for, scorpions.
They're a common reason manyvisitors opt for the daytime
tour, rather than risking boththe stings and spirits after
dark.
But as your tour begins, you'llfirst be greeted for what locals
call the Gavates, the drawers,built along the outer perimeter
of the cemetery.
Forming its vast columbarium,Gavate translates directly into
(05:00):
drawer in English, and it's theperfect description.
The walls of the colonnade arealigned with nearly 1,750 sealed
niches, each one a resting placefor the caskets of the 19th
century.
Thousands of souls lie withinthese stone drawers, a practical
yet haunting solution to thecity's space and sorrow.
(05:22):
Each niche holds a name, date,and a silence that seems to hum
beneath the stone.
If you stand at the corner wherethe two sides of the colonnade
meet and raise your voice, yourwords will echo back, resonating
through the air in perfectsymmetry, but it's no accident.
Manuel Gomez Iverra designed itas just so, applying the same
(05:42):
acoustic mastery he used in thecathedral towers.
Here sound becomes spirit.
Voices travel and beat andlinger, like the whispers of the
living calling out to the dead.
The cemetery's wealthiestresidents were known for
commissioning artists whocompeted to create ever more
elaborate tombs.
Each crafted with exquisitedetail, the spirit of rivalry
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and grandeur still shapes thePanthon debilin's wealthy
section today.
Its architect Manuel Gomez Iberawas buried somewhere within the
grounds.
Though his grave remainsunknown, he was interred without
a headstone.
To this day, efforts continue tolocate his final resting place.
The names of Guadalajara's elitemay not be familiar to many, but
(06:29):
one certainly is Jose Cuervo,yes, that Jose Cuervo, the
founder of the world-famoustequila brand.
The family has a plot within thecemetery with a founder and
several relatives rest.
Ironically, most visitors aren'tdrawn here, though, for the
Cuervo family tomb itself.
In Truegrim fashion, thecemetery's legends, the ghosts,
(06:50):
curses, and the tales that chillthe spine are far more notorious
than the tequila could ever be.
These tales begin amid the proudmarkers of the city's elite,
stone angels and towering cryptsthat whisper of power and
prestige.
Yet among them lie graveswithout surnames, some bearing
only a woman's first name,sometimes punctuated with a
(07:11):
lonely exclamation point.
Others, though, have no name atall.
Together they form a hauntingrecord of those whom history has
refused to acknowledge.
In the 19th century, men ofstanding often took what they
desired, from their wives, fromtheir servants, from those
without power to protest.
When a servant bore a son, hemight be acknowledged, perhaps
(07:34):
even recorded as the master'schild, but if the child was a
girl, she was condemned beforeshe ever even drew breath.
Beneath the colonnade rest thesedaughters, young women barely 18
to 22, buried at the pleading oftheir mothers, who begged for
mercy from the very men who hadwronged them.
Many graves remain unmarked.
(07:55):
Their names erased to sparefamilies this stain of scandal.
They were denied even thedignity of remembrance, carrying
the burden of their birth intothe afterlife.
The Senate being born a girloutside of Wedlock lingered
beyond the grave.
But not all the stories buriedhere belong to the forgotten.
Some here are written in stone,grand, defiant, and meant to
(08:15):
withstand eternity.
At the heart of the pantheon,the Ibnin stands the Egyptian
chapel, a striking mausoleumcrowned with a pyramid-shaped
dome in the ancient style of thepharaohs.
At each corner stands a wailingwoman mourning in stone, their
grave frozen yet eternal.
Originally, this chapel wasbuilt to honor the most notable
figures of Jalisco, a restingplace for the city's
(08:38):
distinguished men.
Beneath the chapel lies anunderground crypt containing 64
burial niches, each one a silenttestament to status and memory.
In 1957, the remains of thesedignitaries were transferred to
the rotunda in downtownGuadalajara.
The chapel, emptied of itsoriginal occupants, remains
architecturally intact.
(09:00):
A haunting relic of 19th-centuryambition and reverence.
Though no bodies lie within thepyramid today, the structure
itself stands as a monument togrief, power, and the persistent
echoes of history.
But even among the marble andshadow, some graves whisper
softer tales.
Finding two people from theBritish Isles in Guadalajara's
(09:21):
most famous cemetery is rare.
But what makes our crypts trulyremarkable, however, are the
offerings, coins, pictures ofJesus, and small gifts left by
visitors, a practice reminiscentof the Day of the Dead.
Here for two Scots.
To the memory of Joseph Johnson,born January 5th, 1832, in
Paisley, Scotland, died April18, 1896, and next to him rest
(09:45):
his wife, also from Scotland.
No one truly knows why theJohnsons came to Guadalajara.
Joseph was a doctor, humble,devoted, known to treat the sick
even when they had nothing togive in return.
The couple lived modestly, theirgenerosity far greater than
their fortune.
Now, legend says that those whocome to their graves and whisper
a rosary at noon or at a ghostlyhour of midnight may be granted
(10:10):
blessings of health, love, orluck.
Something that Jocsans stillmove unseen through the living
world, tugging softly at thethreads of fate, and leaving
behind a single coin as proofthat their aid has been given.
But not every spirit withinthese walls offers kindness.
Some are bound by darkerhungers.
Guadalajara's most infamouslegend begins with a vampire, a
(10:33):
story that draws many curioussouls through the gates of its
cemetery.
The legend begins long beforedawn in the 19th century, when a
shadow seemed to settle overGuadalajara.
It starts innocently enough,dead animals appearing near
Baranguita's, the neighborhoodof El Calizal.
First people dismissed it asmisfortune, but when the bodies
(10:53):
were examined, the truth was farmore sinister.
Each one was completely dry, nota single drop of blood
remaining.
Then the horror deepened,children began to vanish,
especially the youngest, thenewborns.
Fear then spread like wildfire.
The city's famed night revelerslocked their doors, whispering
prayers into the dark, hopingthe creature outside would pass
(11:15):
them by, it became clear,something unnatural stalked the
streets, a vampire hunted inGuadalajara.
As the days passed, a band ofdesperate citizens decided they
wouldn't wait any longer fordivine justice.
Beneath the cover of night theyhunted the beast, cornering it,
trapping it in a net, anddriving a stake through its
heart.
At last the city could breatheagain.
(11:37):
The body was carried to thePanthenon de Belin, and buried
beneath a heavy slab ofconcrete, sealed away so it
might never rise again.
But beast in Guadalajara isnever without a price.
Months later the slab cracked.
From the wound in the earth, atree began to grow, its roots
thick and dark, intertwined withthe grave below, its branches
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clawing toward the sky.
The tree still stands today,ringed by a wrought iron fence,
a fragile barrier meant tocontain whatever may stir
beneath the soil.
Locals say its bark sometimesbleeds dark sap, a reminder of
the vampire it shelters.
They fear that harming it couldawaken the restless creature
buried below.
And when the tree finallycollapses, destroying the tomb
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entirely, the creature will riseonce more, haunting those who
dare to stay awake afternightfall.
Yet the legend of a vampireisn't the only tale whispered
through the stones ofGuadalajara.
There's another, one that blursthe line between sleep and
death, between family andbetrayal, and the terrible
hunger of greed.
(12:42):
The tale begins with a womannamed Victoriana Hortaro, who
inherited her family's vastfortune.
Her husband, freed from theburden of work, gave himself
fully to indulgence, fine drink,fine company, and the ruinous
kind of pleasure.
Within two years, those accessescarried him to his grave,
leaving Victoriana alone withher wealth and her children, who
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watched her like hawks circlinga dying thing.
The trouble was they saw nottheir mother but a vault, and
she was standing in the way.
Since Charlotte, Victoriana hadsuffered from catalepsy, a
strange condition that couldstill her breath and slow her
heart to a whisper.
Twice her body had gone cold,twice she had been mistaken for
dead, and twice she had awokenhours later, gasping, trembling,
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alive, to the horror of thosewho narrowly buried her.
However, not to her sons, whowere frozen between shock and
disappointment.
But when August afternoon in1894 it happened again, her
pulse faded, her chest screwedstill, and this time her sons
didn't wait.
Before the sun had set, theydeclared her dead, carried her
(13:50):
body to the cemetery, and buriedher, eager to finally claim what
she left behind.
That night Victoriana fought forher life beneath the earth.
The watchman later swore he hadheard it, a muffled cry, a sound
a living soul should ever make.
When he reached her tomb, hefroze.
There bursting through the soilwas her hand, bloodied,
(14:12):
trembling, reaching for life.
By morning, the villagersgathered in horror round her
grave, where that same hand hadhardened, turned to stone, her
fingers forever reaching.
Later the truth came to light.
Her children would never see asingle coin.
Victoriana, perhaps sensingtheir greed all along, had left
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every single penny to charity.
Some say she died of fright, herheart surrendering in those
final frantic momentsunderground.
Others whisper that her spirit,betrayed and unavenged, turned
her own flesh to marble, awarning to those who would
profit from death.
But the cemetery holds othersecrets, some buried in gold
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rather than sorrow.
In the 19th century, a man couldcarve out a fortune as a
privateer, and one such man did,pillaging ships across the
Pacific, rumored to have a loverin every port.
With each raid his treasuregrew, hidden away, a secret only
known to him.
He revealed it to no one, noteven his crew, not even his own
(15:16):
son.
In his later years, weary of thesea, he settled in Guadalajara,
but the stillness of the landdid not suit him.
Within months his heart failedand he died, taking the secret
of his buried treasure to thegrave.
Yet the story doesn't end there.
Locals whisper that if you lighta candle and cite the rosary,
every word, every bead, with atrue devotion near midnight at
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his tomb, the pirate may appear,and if your heart is pure, he
will reveal the secret locationof his hidden treasure.
But beware, not every soul who'stried has returned unchanged.
The treasure remains buried, itsfate intertwined with the
restless spirit that guards itstill.
Within the quiet walls of thePantlan de Bilín rests another
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one of Mexico's beloved andunsettling legends.
The story of Nachito, originallyknown as Ignateo Torres
Altamarano, but nicknamedNachito, he was a young boy with
an unbearable fear of the darkand enclosed spaces.
Nachito's fear of the dark wasso great he couldn't sleep
unless the windows were open,and a warm light filled the
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room.
Even the approachment ofnightfall made his heart race.
Then around 1882, tragedystruck.
Nachito passed away in hissleep.
His grieving parents laid him torest in the soft earth of the
cemetery, hoping at last he hadfinally found peace.
But peace, it seemed, was notwhat followed.
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The very next morning, thecaretaker found something
impossible.
Natito's coffin had been liftedfrom the ground and set beside
his grave.
Believing it was an act ofvandalism, they reburied it.
Yet the next day the same thinghappened, and again the day
after.
For ten nights in a row,Natito's coffin rose from the
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earth, as though the boy himselfwas trying to escape the
darkness from below.
At last his parents couldn'tbear it any longer.
They believed their son's spiritwas still afraid, afraid of
being trapped in the eternalnight.
So they built him a specialtomb, a stone structure
supported by pillars, keepinghis coffin above the ground
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where sunlight could alwaysreach him.
To this day, Nyacito's restingplace remains one of the most
visited in Guadalajara.
Visitors bring toys, candies,and small gifts, offering them
to comfort the child who couldnever rest in the dark.
Some say if you linger hereafter sunset, you might hear the
faint sound of laughter, or seea shadow flint between the
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pillars, small and playful as achild at play.
In 2015, a team of investigativeghost hunters ventured in the
Panton de Bilin, armed withcameras and an EVP recorder, a
device designed to capture theelusive sounds of spirits and
other non-corporal beings.
But that night the recorder wasplaced near the grave of Natito,
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the young boy whose restlessspirit is said to roam the
cemetery.
Alongside the cameras, it wasleft running throughout the
night, capturing every Greekwhisper and rustle.
When the recordings were lateranalyzed, the researchers
discovered somethingastonishing.
Once all the ambient sounds werefiltered out, a small,
unmistakable voice emerged.
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Hey, you found my grave.
Now give me a little piece ofchocolate.
Whether it was little Nachitoreaching out from the grave
beyond, or mainly a trick of thenight, no one can say for
certain.
The recording, like the boy'slegend, continues to send
shivers through those who hearit.
Many of us in our youth havewandered graveyards on a dare,
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testing the fragile veil betweenthe living and the dead.
But for those brave or perhapsfoolish enough to do so in
Guadalajara, the Battle ofLibilin is not a place for the
faint of heart.
One night long ago, a young manboasted to his friends that he
didn't fear ghosts at all.
To prove it, he made a wager.
He would enter the cemeteryalone at eight o'clock.
(19:13):
The hour of all souls, when itsaid the dead rise briefly from
their graves to walk among theliving.
Not only would he walk thelength of the shadowed arcade,
he said, he would hammer a nailin one of the stones at the far
end, a mark to prove hiscourage.
And so when the bell of thetemple of Bethlehem told at
eight, he stepped inside.
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Lantern in one hand, hammer andnail in the other, he moved
steadily through the narrow pathbetween the tombs.
As the air grew cooler, a shadowseemed to breathe.
Still he pressed on.
At last he reached the end ofthe arcade and drove a nail deep
into the stone, but as he turnedto leave, something stopped him.
He couldn't move.
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A chill ran through his spine,and an unmistakable sensation of
fingers, cold and firm, presseddown on his shoulders.
He ran to cry out, but no soundescaped him.
The world went black.
Hours passed.
His friends waiting outside grewrestless.
When he didn't return, theyentered the cemetery, calling
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his name, their voicestrembling.
They found him at the far end ofthe arcade, sitting motionless
against the wall.
The nail had pinned the edge ofhis cape to the stone.
He had trapped himself.
But when they shook him awake,he was not the same.
His eyes were wide, his mouthtrembling, lost to reason.
He had seen something in thedark of that night, or believed
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he had, or whatever it was, itleft him mad.
Now even locals say that if youlisten closely near the arcade's
end, you still might hear thefaint clang of a hammer striking
stone, and the echo of a darethat went too far.
In the world of dares, the loveis perhaps the most dangerous of
them all, a bold declarationagainst the odds, against
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reason, and sometimes againstthe living.
For Jose Maria Castanos andAndrea Retiz, that dare meant to
end in marriage.
They were young, in love, andcertain that fate would bend to
their devotion.
But fate, as it so often does,has other plans, and this time
its cruel hand were the face ofJose's own mother.
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She despised Andrea's family fortheir lack of wealth, their
humble standings.
No sign of her, she said, wouldmarry beneath his station, and
so she tore their love like avulture to flesh, separating,
humiliating, forbidding.
But love is stubborn, and thetwo continued to meet in secret,
clinging to each other beneaththe weight of despair.
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At last, when the pain of beingapart grew unbearable, they made
a terrible pact.
In a final act of devotion, theywould take their own lives,
believing death would unite themwhere life couldn't.
Their bodies were found the nextmorning in a nearby garden, side
by side, peaceful at last.
Jose's wealthy family buriedthem together in the Pantalon de
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Belin, beneath two interwovencrosses carved into stone, a
symbol of the union denied tothem in life, and fulfilled only
in death.
But Jose's mother found nopeace.
Guilt gnawed at her, hollowingher days and haunting her
nights.
In a desperate plea forforgiveness, she returned to the
grave one morning, carrying agarland, a wedding cord woven
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from fresh flowers.
She laid it upon the tomb, hertears falling onto the petals as
she prayed, and then silence.
The birds stopped singing, thewind stilled, and before her
eyes the flowers began toharden, their soft colors fading
into cold grey stone.
And in that moment sheunderstood.
The lovers had forgiven her, butwhether God had, that she would
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never know.
Graveyards are meant to hold thedead.
But in the Pantzant de Bilin,legend says they may guard gold
as well.
It sold that a wealthy landowneronce buried several coffins,
each filled with unimaginableriches.
Later he faked his own death andthat of his wife, quietly
leaving the town to settleelsewhere.
But during the revolution, asoldier recognized the
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supposedly dead man and capturedhim, hoping to learn the
treasure's location.
With a cruel persistence, hetortured the man until the
secret was revealed.
The soldier and his troophurried to the cemetery only to
find confusion.
Dozens of graves fit thedescription, yet no gold was
ever recovered.
Since the story has grown darkerand more impossible, the
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treasure it said cannot beclaimed by force.
To find it, one must enter thecemetery at eight o'clock, the
hour of all souls, and thespirits are said to rise from
their graves.
The seeker must pray three arefathers and three Ave Maria's,
and answer correctly aquestioned whisper by the ghosts
themselves.
Few have dared, fewer havereturned.
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And those who do speak only ofscreams that echo long after the
graveyard gates have closed, thetreasure still remains, hidden
and untouched, waiting for theone bold enough to meet the dead
on their terms.
Many neighbors of the graveyardswear that on certain nights the
faint sound of a horse-drawncarriage echoes through the
streets, stopping at theentrance of the cemetery, but
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when they peer through theirwindows, nothing is there.
At the far end of the graveyardlies three graves, perfectly
aligned near a solitary cactus.
Locals warn that stepping onthese graves, whether by
accident or even in jest, willinvite the spirits to visit your
home, and in the dead of thenight they say that these
restless goats tug at the feetof the wrongdoers, reminding all
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that the graves are not to bedisturbed.
Walkers also claim that thecemetery gate is found half
open, though the graveyard hasstrict hours.
At night the iron gate is alwayslocked tight, yet some swear
they've glimpsed it swayingslowly in the moonlight.
A chilling legend of a child isalso tied to Pantan de Belin and
the hospital that once stoodnext door.
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A young boy named Santiagosuffered from a terminal stomach
illness.
Some stories say it was aparticularly aggressive form of
cancer.
One day his mother brought him asmall statue of his favorite
saint, hoping it would bring himcomfort as he struggled through
his pain, as she placed itgently in his hands while he
slept.
When Santiago awoke, somethingin him snapped.
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He threw the statue against thewall, cursing God for the cruel
illness that plagued him.
He cried out, his voice echoingthrough the room, that God
himself should suffer the samefate, and ended with a chilling
remark.
That night his sufferingintensified.
Somehow he wandered from thehospital into the darkness of
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the cemetery.
By morning his body wasdiscovered hanging from a tree,
hospital sheets twisted into amakeshift noose.
To this day, locals whisper thaton quiet nights, the restless
spirit of young Santiago can beseen hanging from a tree.
Within the Patron de Bylin, thetale is often told to children
as a warning, a dark story meantto keep faith alive, even in the
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face of unimaginable suffering.
Very often a local gentlemanwould stroll past the gates of
the Patron de Bylin at night,and every time he claimed to see
the same figure, a well-dressedman walking through the arcades,
absorbed in a book, seeminglyoblivious to the world around
him.
One morning the gentlemanarrived at the cemetery, eager
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to compliment the administrator.
What a fine night watchman youhave, he said, and monitoring
the uniform he had seen.
The administrator froze.
We don't have a night watchman,she replied.
There are no funds for such aservice.
Confused the gentleman describedthe figure in detail, the
clothes, posture, even the wayhe carried the book.
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The administrator paused andthen remembered something.
A photograph on one of thegraves, at the very beginning of
the courtyard to the left.
It matched perfectly.
Together they walked to thegrave.
There it was, the likeness ofthe man the visitor had seen
night after night.
Terrified, the gentleman leftthe cemetery and never returned.
The pantalon de Belain only maybe entered on a paid tour with a
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guide, whether by day or bynight.
Photography is allowed duringthe day for a small fee, but at
night the cemetery's mostnotorious hours.
No pictures are permitted.
Perhaps this is to protect itsrestless souls or the spirits
themselves.
Some even whisper that it keepsthe vampire from rising once
more.
(27:32):
Today the cemetery also houses amuseum, which tours are offered,
and it's recognized as aheritage site, preserving both
its history and its manyhaunting legends.
Few graveyards in Mexico carrythe reputation of Panton de
Bilín, known for its legends,restless spirits, and eerie
tales.
It's considered by many to bevery haunted, a place where the
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veil between life and deathfeels impossibly thin.
This feeling only grows strongerduring Deutomos Huertos.
In the last week of October, thecemetery transforms into a
living celebration of memory andtradition.
Flickering candlelight dancesacross the gravestones,
illuminating the offerings leftto honor the souls who have
passed, guiding them back fromthe realm of the dead to the
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world of the living.
Among the most impressive is themonumental altar, built by local
students adorned by nearly 1,500candles, intricately crafted
paper coffins and other symbolshonoring the dead.
Guiding tours and storytellingbring the cemetery's legends to
life, highlighting the storiesof the spirits like Nachito, the
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Johnsons, and others said to beespecially active during this
sacred time.
At night the cemetery takes onan almost otherworldly glow.
The mix of incense, flickeringlights, and the distant sound of
music creates a space where theliving and the dead seem to
meet.
Visitors whisper their wishes,share memories, and sometimes
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claim to feel the presence ofthose long gone.
The Pantalante Bilin de TodosMosuertos is more than a
celebration.
It's a reminder that history,legend, and memory are
intertwined, and that thestories of the dead continue to
move through the living, keepingtheir spirits alive in both
beautiful and haunting ways.
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For now the stories of thePantalante Bilin slip back into
stone, and the dead return totheir uneasy rest, yet they're
never silent for long.
Thank you for walking with usthrough the veil into the
Patalante Bilin, descending oncemore into the hauntings of
history.
The gate is sealed, the veildrawn, yet death gives no
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calendar, and so we shallreturn, as we always do, on the
grim.
unknown (30:01):
Time.
Green morning and welcome to the Grim.
I'm your host, Kristen.
On today's episode, we'll beopening the gate and entering
the Pantalon de Bilin, locatedin Guadalajara, Mexico.
The aroma of coffee mingles inthe air.
The gates stand open.
Step carefully.
It's time to descend into thehauntings of history.
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It's all Halloween's Eve, dearlisteners, my favorite night of
the year.
If that wasn't already obvious,as the veil thins, many soon
will be turning their thoughtsto Christmas or Thanksgiving
once the clock strikes midnight.
But not this host.
For me, the night only deepens.
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Crossing into the land of thedead through colonial arches lit
by flames, we find ourselvesthis Diego de Mos Muertos in
Mexico's most haunted burialground, the Pantalon de Bilin.
Its winding paths are perfumedby jasmine and lined with marble
crypts that rest within a sacredgarden of gothic neoclassical
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grace.
It's beautiful, haunting, andeverything you could ask for in
a restless city of the dead.
Yet the grounds weren'toriginally meant for the dearly
departed.
Once this place was meant topreserve life, not cradle its
end, the Pantalon de Bilin beganas a part of the Hospital of
Bilin Complex, a vast charitableproject envisioned by Fray
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Antonio Acade, who sought toheal a city ravaged by plague
and famine.
In the late 18th century,Guadalajara suffered under the
weight of relentless epidemicsand devastating food shortages.
The existing hospitalsoverflowed with the sick, and by
royal decree the Spanish crownordered a creation of a new
facility.
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Permission was granted by KingFerdinand VI in 1751, and by
1793 the Hospital Bellin openedits doors, a sanctuary for the
living in a city forevershadowed by death.
But the boundary between theliving and the dead wouldn't
hold for long.
When cholera swept throughGuadalajara in 1833, the bodies
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outnumbered the beds.
The city needed a burial groundbeyond its crowded limits.
The orchards behind the hospitalran transformed into sacred
soil, giving rise to what becameknown as the Pantalon de Bilin,
a name that would echo throughcenturies of mourning.
Construction began in 1848 underarchitect Manuel Gomez Ibera,
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the same visionary who designedthe twin towers of Guadalajara's
cathedral.
The cemetery was divided intotwo realms, one for the wealthy
and one for the common soul.
At the heart stood the chapel ofSanta Paula, beneath which lay
the remains of Jalisco's mostdistinguished figures.
A subterranean panthenon of theillustrious and the forgotten
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alike.
For decades this crypt served asa civic shrine until 1957, when
the honored dead weretransferred to the Rotunda de la
Haliasensius at Rustrius nearby,originally known as the Santa
Paula Cemetery of the BatonTibellin, opened in 1848 and
closed to new burials in 1896.
Its formal name faded, but itslegend endured.
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Today the common section hasvanished, its land claimed by
the Tower of MedicalSpecialities belonging to the
University of Guadalajara, butthe upper portion remains
intact.
The marble crypts, carvedangels, and the whispering
trees, they endure as a museumof the macabre, a place where
faith, sorrow, and superstitionintertwine.
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The grounds can only be enteredthrough a guided tour, with
photography permitted only insmall measure, a restriction
that shrouds the place in evengreater mystery.
Visitors often find themselveswondering what truly lies within
its high stone walls.
Locals ever proud of theirhistory and hauntings encourage
travelers to take the tour, andit's not hard to see why.
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When a guide begins with thewords, remember that legends are
untrue, but the real truth isthe history.
You know you're in for ahauntingly good time.
Visitors describe the Pantalonde Bilin as a matic,
unforgettable, and one of themost historical landmarks in all
of Guadalajara.
Yet before you can worry aboutits ghostly residence or the
infamous vampire, there'ssomething else you might want to
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watch for, scorpions.
They're a common reason manyvisitors opt for the daytime
tour, rather than risking boththe stings and spirits after
dark.
But as your tour begins, you'llfirst be greeted for what locals
call the Gavates, the drawers,built along the outer perimeter
of the cemetery.
Forming its vast columbarium,Gavate translates directly into
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drawer in English, and it's theperfect description.
The walls of the colonnade arealigned with nearly 1,750 sealed
niches, each one a resting placefor the caskets of the 19th
century.
Thousands of souls lie withinthese stone drawers, a practical
yet haunting solution to thecity's space and sorrow.
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Each niche holds a name, date,and a silence that seems to hum
beneath the stone.
If you stand at the corner wherethe two sides of the colonnade
meet and raise your voice, yourwords will echo back, resonating
through the air in perfectsymmetry, but it's no accident.
Manuel Gomez Iverra designed itas just so, applying the same
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acoustic mastery he used in thecathedral towers.
Here sound becomes spirit.
Voices travel and beat andlinger, like the whispers of the
living calling out to the dead.
The cemetery's wealthiestresidents were known for
commissioning artists whocompeted to create ever more
elaborate tombs.
Each crafted with exquisitedetail, the spirit of rivalry
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and grandeur still shapes thePanthon debilin's wealthy
section today.
Its architect Manuel Gomez Iberawas buried somewhere within the
grounds.
Though his grave remainsunknown, he was interred without
a headstone.
To this day, efforts continue tolocate his final resting place.
The names of Guadalajara's elitemay not be familiar to many, but
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one certainly is Jose Cuervo,yes, that Jose Cuervo, the
founder of the world-famoustequila brand.
The family has a plot within thecemetery with a founder and
several relatives rest.
Ironically, most visitors aren'tdrawn here, though, for the
Cuervo family tomb itself.
In Truegrim fashion, thecemetery's legends, the ghosts,
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curses, and the tales that chillthe spine are far more notorious
than the tequila could ever be.
These tales begin amid the proudmarkers of the city's elite,
stone angels and towering cryptsthat whisper of power and
prestige.
Yet among them lie graveswithout surnames, some bearing
only a woman's first name,sometimes punctuated with a
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lonely exclamation point.
Others, though, have no name atall.
Together they form a hauntingrecord of those whom history has
refused to acknowledge.
In the 19th century, men ofstanding often took what they
desired, from their wives, fromtheir servants, from those
without power to protest.
When a servant bore a son, hemight be acknowledged, perhaps
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even recorded as the master'schild, but if the child was a
girl, she was condemned beforeshe ever even drew breath.
Beneath the colonnade rest thesedaughters, young women barely 18
to 22, buried at the pleading oftheir mothers, who begged for
mercy from the very men who hadwronged them.
Many graves remain unmarked.
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Their names erased to sparefamilies this stain of scandal.
They were denied even thedignity of remembrance, carrying
the burden of their birth intothe afterlife.
The Senate being born a girloutside of Wedlock lingered
beyond the grave.
But not all the stories buriedhere belong to the forgotten.
Some here are written in stone,grand, defiant, and meant to
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withstand eternity.
At the heart of the pantheon,the Ibnin stands the Egyptian
chapel, a striking mausoleumcrowned with a pyramid-shaped
dome in the ancient style of thepharaohs.
At each corner stands a wailingwoman mourning in stone, their
grave frozen yet eternal.
Originally, this chapel wasbuilt to honor the most notable
figures of Jalisco, a restingplace for the city's
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distinguished men.
Beneath the chapel lies anunderground crypt containing 64
burial niches, each one a silenttestament to status and memory.
In 1957, the remains of thesedignitaries were transferred to
the rotunda in downtownGuadalajara.
The chapel, emptied of itsoriginal occupants, remains
architecturally intact.
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A haunting relic of 19th-centuryambition and reverence.
Though no bodies lie within thepyramid today, the structure
itself stands as a monument togrief, power, and the persistent
echoes of history.
But even among the marble andshadow, some graves whisper
softer tales.
Finding two people from theBritish Isles in Guadalajara's
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most famous cemetery is rare.
But what makes our crypts trulyremarkable, however, are the
offerings, coins, pictures ofJesus, and small gifts left by
visitors, a practice reminiscentof the Day of the Dead.
Here for two Scots.
To the memory of Joseph Johnson,born January 5th, 1832, in
Paisley, Scotland, died April18, 1896, and next to him rest
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his wife, also from Scotland.
No one truly knows why theJohnsons came to Guadalajara.
Joseph was a doctor, humble,devoted, known to treat the sick
even when they had nothing togive in return.
The couple lived modestly, theirgenerosity far greater than
their fortune.
Now, legend says that those whocome to their graves and whisper
a rosary at noon or at a ghostlyhour of midnight may be granted
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blessings of health, love, orluck.
Something that Jocsans stillmove unseen through the living
world, tugging softly at thethreads of fate, and leaving
behind a single coin as proofthat their aid has been given.
But not every spirit withinthese walls offers kindness.
Some are bound by darkerhungers.
Guadalajara's most infamouslegend begins with a vampire, a
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story that draws many curioussouls through the gates of its
cemetery.
The legend begins long beforedawn in the 19th century, when a
shadow seemed to settle overGuadalajara.
It starts innocently enough,dead animals appearing near
Baranguita's, the neighborhoodof El Calizal.
First people dismissed it asmisfortune, but when the bodies
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were examined, the truth was farmore sinister.
Each one was completely dry, nota single drop of blood
remaining.
Then the horror deepened,children began to vanish,
especially the youngest, thenewborns.
Fear then spread like wildfire.
The city's famed night revelerslocked their doors, whispering
prayers into the dark, hopingthe creature outside would pass
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them by, it became clear,something unnatural stalked the
streets, a vampire hunted inGuadalajara.
As the days passed, a band ofdesperate citizens decided they
wouldn't wait any longer fordivine justice.
Beneath the cover of night theyhunted the beast, cornering it,
trapping it in a net, anddriving a stake through its
heart.
At last the city could breatheagain.
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The body was carried to thePanthenon de Belin, and buried
beneath a heavy slab ofconcrete, sealed away so it
might never rise again.
But beast in Guadalajara isnever without a price.
Months later the slab cracked.
From the wound in the earth, atree began to grow, its roots
thick and dark, intertwined withthe grave below, its branches
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clawing toward the sky.
The tree still stands today,ringed by a wrought iron fence,
a fragile barrier meant tocontain whatever may stir
beneath the soil.
Locals say its bark sometimesbleeds dark sap, a reminder of
the vampire it shelters.
They fear that harming it couldawaken the restless creature
buried below.
And when the tree finallycollapses, destroying the tomb
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entirely, the creature will riseonce more, haunting those who
dare to stay awake afternightfall.
Yet the legend of a vampireisn't the only tale whispered
through the stones ofGuadalajara.
There's another, one that blursthe line between sleep and
death, between family andbetrayal, and the terrible
hunger of greed.
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The tale begins with a womannamed Victoriana Hortaro, who
inherited her family's vastfortune.
Her husband, freed from theburden of work, gave himself
fully to indulgence, fine drink,fine company, and the ruinous
kind of pleasure.
Within two years, those accessescarried him to his grave,
leaving Victoriana alone withher wealth and her children, who
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watched her like hawks circlinga dying thing.
The trouble was they saw nottheir mother but a vault, and
she was standing in the way.
Since Charlotte, Victoriana hadsuffered from catalepsy, a
strange condition that couldstill her breath and slow her
heart to a whisper.
Twice her body had gone cold,twice she had been mistaken for
dead, and twice she had awokenhours later, gasping, trembling,
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alive, to the horror of thosewho narrowly buried her.
However, not to her sons, whowere frozen between shock and
disappointment.
But when August afternoon in1894 it happened again, her
pulse faded, her chest screwedstill, and this time her sons
didn't wait.
Before the sun had set, theydeclared her dead, carried her
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body to the cemetery, and buriedher, eager to finally claim what
she left behind.
That night Victoriana fought forher life beneath the earth.
The watchman later swore he hadheard it, a muffled cry, a sound
a living soul should ever make.
When he reached her tomb, hefroze.
There bursting through the soilwas her hand, bloodied,
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trembling, reaching for life.
By morning, the villagersgathered in horror round her
grave, where that same hand hadhardened, turned to stone, her
fingers forever reaching.
Later the truth came to light.
Her children would never see asingle coin.
Victoriana, perhaps sensingtheir greed all along, had left
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every single penny to charity.
Some say she died of fright, herheart surrendering in those
final frantic momentsunderground.
Others whisper that her spirit,betrayed and unavenged, turned
her own flesh to marble, awarning to those who would
profit from death.
But the cemetery holds othersecrets, some buried in gold
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rather than sorrow.
In the 19th century, a man couldcarve out a fortune as a
privateer, and one such man did,pillaging ships across the
Pacific, rumored to have a loverin every port.
With each raid his treasuregrew, hidden away, a secret only
known to him.
He revealed it to no one, noteven his crew, not even his own
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son.
In his later years, weary of thesea, he settled in Guadalajara,
but the stillness of the landdid not suit him.
Within months his heart failedand he died, taking the secret
of his buried treasure to thegrave.
Yet the story doesn't end there.
Locals whisper that if you lighta candle and cite the rosary,
every word, every bead, with atrue devotion near midnight at
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his tomb, the pirate may appear,and if your heart is pure, he
will reveal the secret locationof his hidden treasure.
But beware, not every soul who'stried has returned unchanged.
The treasure remains buried, itsfate intertwined with the
restless spirit that guards itstill.
Within the quiet walls of thePantlan de Bilín rests another
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one of Mexico's beloved andunsettling legends.
The story of Nachito, originallyknown as Ignateo Torres
Altamarano, but nicknamedNachito, he was a young boy with
an unbearable fear of the darkand enclosed spaces.
Nachito's fear of the dark wasso great he couldn't sleep
unless the windows were open,and a warm light filled the
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room.
Even the approachment ofnightfall made his heart race.
Then around 1882, tragedystruck.
Nachito passed away in hissleep.
His grieving parents laid him torest in the soft earth of the
cemetery, hoping at last he hadfinally found peace.
But peace, it seemed, was notwhat followed.
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The very next morning, thecaretaker found something
impossible.
Natito's coffin had been liftedfrom the ground and set beside
his grave.
Believing it was an act ofvandalism, they reburied it.
Yet the next day the same thinghappened, and again the day
after.
For ten nights in a row,Natito's coffin rose from the
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earth, as though the boy himselfwas trying to escape the
darkness from below.
At last his parents couldn'tbear it any longer.
They believed their son's spiritwas still afraid, afraid of
being trapped in the eternalnight.
So they built him a specialtomb, a stone structure
supported by pillars, keepinghis coffin above the ground
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where sunlight could alwaysreach him.
To this day, Nyacito's restingplace remains one of the most
visited in Guadalajara.
Visitors bring toys, candies,and small gifts, offering them
to comfort the child who couldnever rest in the dark.
Some say if you linger hereafter sunset, you might hear the
faint sound of laughter, or seea shadow flint between the
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pillars, small and playful as achild at play.
In 2015, a team of investigativeghost hunters ventured in the
Panton de Bilin, armed withcameras and an EVP recorder, a
device designed to capture theelusive sounds of spirits and
other non-corporal beings.
But that night the recorder wasplaced near the grave of Natito,
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the young boy whose restlessspirit is said to roam the
cemetery.
Alongside the cameras, it wasleft running throughout the
night, capturing every Greekwhisper and rustle.
When the recordings were lateranalyzed, the researchers
discovered somethingastonishing.
Once all the ambient sounds werefiltered out, a small,
unmistakable voice emerged.
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Hey, you found my grave.
Now give me a little piece ofchocolate.
Whether it was little Nachitoreaching out from the grave
beyond, or mainly a trick of thenight, no one can say for
certain.
The recording, like the boy'slegend, continues to send
shivers through those who hearit.
Many of us in our youth havewandered graveyards on a dare,
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testing the fragile veil betweenthe living and the dead.
But for those brave or perhapsfoolish enough to do so in
Guadalajara, the Battle ofLibilin is not a place for the
faint of heart.
One night long ago, a young manboasted to his friends that he
didn't fear ghosts at all.
To prove it, he made a wager.
He would enter the cemeteryalone at eight o'clock.
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The hour of all souls, when itsaid the dead rise briefly from
their graves to walk among theliving.
Not only would he walk thelength of the shadowed arcade,
he said, he would hammer a nailin one of the stones at the far
end, a mark to prove hiscourage.
And so when the bell of thetemple of Bethlehem told at
eight, he stepped inside.
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Lantern in one hand, hammer andnail in the other, he moved
steadily through the narrow pathbetween the tombs.
As the air grew cooler, a shadowseemed to breathe.
Still he pressed on.
At last he reached the end ofthe arcade and drove a nail deep
into the stone, but as he turnedto leave, something stopped him.
He couldn't move.
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A chill ran through his spine,and an unmistakable sensation of
fingers, cold and firm, presseddown on his shoulders.
He ran to cry out, but no soundescaped him.
The world went black.
Hours passed.
His friends waiting outside grewrestless.
When he didn't return, theyentered the cemetery, calling
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his name, their voicestrembling.
They found him at the far end ofthe arcade, sitting motionless
against the wall.
The nail had pinned the edge ofhis cape to the stone.
He had trapped himself.
But when they shook him awake,he was not the same.
His eyes were wide, his mouthtrembling, lost to reason.
He had seen something in thedark of that night, or believed
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he had, or whatever it was, itleft him mad.
Now even locals say that if youlisten closely near the arcade's
end, you still might hear thefaint clang of a hammer striking
stone, and the echo of a darethat went too far.
In the world of dares, the loveis perhaps the most dangerous of
them all, a bold declarationagainst the odds, against
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reason, and sometimes againstthe living.
For Jose Maria Castanos andAndrea Retiz, that dare meant to
end in marriage.
They were young, in love, andcertain that fate would bend to
their devotion.
But fate, as it so often does,has other plans, and this time
its cruel hand were the face ofJose's own mother.
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She despised Andrea's family fortheir lack of wealth, their
humble standings.
No sign of her, she said, wouldmarry beneath his station, and
so she tore their love like avulture to flesh, separating,
humiliating, forbidding.
But love is stubborn, and thetwo continued to meet in secret,
clinging to each other beneaththe weight of despair.
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At last, when the pain of beingapart grew unbearable, they made
a terrible pact.
In a final act of devotion, theywould take their own lives,
believing death would unite themwhere life couldn't.
Their bodies were found the nextmorning in a nearby garden, side
by side, peaceful at last.
Jose's wealthy family buriedthem together in the Pantalon de
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Belin, beneath two interwovencrosses carved into stone, a
symbol of the union denied tothem in life, and fulfilled only
in death.
But Jose's mother found nopeace.
Guilt gnawed at her, hollowingher days and haunting her
nights.
In a desperate plea forforgiveness, she returned to the
grave one morning, carrying agarland, a wedding cord woven
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from fresh flowers.
She laid it upon the tomb, hertears falling onto the petals as
she prayed, and then silence.
The birds stopped singing, thewind stilled, and before her
eyes the flowers began toharden, their soft colors fading
into cold grey stone.
And in that moment sheunderstood.
The lovers had forgiven her, butwhether God had, that she would
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never know.
Graveyards are meant to hold thedead.
But in the Pantzant de Bilin,legend says they may guard gold
as well.
It sold that a wealthy landowneronce buried several coffins,
each filled with unimaginableriches.
Later he faked his own death andthat of his wife, quietly
leaving the town to settleelsewhere.
But during the revolution, asoldier recognized the
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supposedly dead man and capturedhim, hoping to learn the
treasure's location.
With a cruel persistence, hetortured the man until the
secret was revealed.
The soldier and his troophurried to the cemetery only to
find confusion.
Dozens of graves fit thedescription, yet no gold was
ever recovered.
Since the story has grown darkerand more impossible, the
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treasure it said cannot beclaimed by force.
To find it, one must enter thecemetery at eight o'clock, the
hour of all souls, and thespirits are said to rise from
their graves.
The seeker must pray three arefathers and three Ave Maria's,
and answer correctly aquestioned whisper by the ghosts
themselves.
Few have dared, fewer havereturned.
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And those who do speak only ofscreams that echo long after the
graveyard gates have closed, thetreasure still remains, hidden
and untouched, waiting for theone bold enough to meet the dead
on their terms.
Many neighbors of the graveyardswear that on certain nights the
faint sound of a horse-drawncarriage echoes through the
streets, stopping at theentrance of the cemetery, but
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when they peer through theirwindows, nothing is there.
At the far end of the graveyardlies three graves, perfectly
aligned near a solitary cactus.
Locals warn that stepping onthese graves, whether by
accident or even in jest, willinvite the spirits to visit your
home, and in the dead of thenight they say that these
restless goats tug at the feetof the wrongdoers, reminding all
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that the graves are not to bedisturbed.
Walkers also claim that thecemetery gate is found half
open, though the graveyard hasstrict hours.
At night the iron gate is alwayslocked tight, yet some swear
they've glimpsed it swayingslowly in the moonlight.
A chilling legend of a child isalso tied to Pantan de Belin and
the hospital that once stoodnext door.
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A young boy named Santiagosuffered from a terminal stomach
illness.
Some stories say it was aparticularly aggressive form of
cancer.
One day his mother brought him asmall statue of his favorite
saint, hoping it would bring himcomfort as he struggled through
his pain, as she placed itgently in his hands while he
slept.
When Santiago awoke, somethingin him snapped.
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He threw the statue against thewall, cursing God for the cruel
illness that plagued him.
He cried out, his voice echoingthrough the room, that God
himself should suffer the samefate, and ended with a chilling
remark.
That night his sufferingintensified.
Somehow he wandered from thehospital into the darkness of
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the cemetery.
By morning his body wasdiscovered hanging from a tree,
hospital sheets twisted into amakeshift noose.
To this day, locals whisper thaton quiet nights, the restless
spirit of young Santiago can beseen hanging from a tree.
Within the Patron de Bylin, thetale is often told to children
as a warning, a dark story meantto keep faith alive, even in the
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face of unimaginable suffering.
Very often a local gentlemanwould stroll past the gates of
the Patron de Bylin at night,and every time he claimed to see
the same figure, a well-dressedman walking through the arcades,
absorbed in a book, seeminglyoblivious to the world around
him.
One morning the gentlemanarrived at the cemetery, eager
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to compliment the administrator.
What a fine night watchman youhave, he said, and monitoring
the uniform he had seen.
The administrator froze.
We don't have a night watchman,she replied.
There are no funds for such aservice.
Confused the gentleman describedthe figure in detail, the
clothes, posture, even the wayhe carried the book.
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The administrator paused andthen remembered something.
A photograph on one of thegraves, at the very beginning of
the courtyard to the left.
It matched perfectly.
Together they walked to thegrave.
There it was, the likeness ofthe man the visitor had seen
night after night.
Terrified, the gentleman leftthe cemetery and never returned.
The pantalon de Belain only maybe entered on a paid tour with a
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guide, whether by day or bynight.
Photography is allowed duringthe day for a small fee, but at
night the cemetery's mostnotorious hours.
No pictures are permitted.
Perhaps this is to protect itsrestless souls or the spirits
themselves.
Some even whisper that it keepsthe vampire from rising once
more.
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Today the cemetery also houses amuseum, which tours are offered,
and it's recognized as aheritage site, preserving both
its history and its manyhaunting legends.
Few graveyards in Mexico carrythe reputation of Panton de
Bilín, known for its legends,restless spirits, and eerie
tales.
It's considered by many to bevery haunted, a place where the
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veil between life and deathfeels impossibly thin.
This feeling only grows strongerduring Deutomos Huertos.
In the last week of October, thecemetery transforms into a
living celebration of memory andtradition.
Flickering candlelight dancesacross the gravestones,
illuminating the offerings leftto honor the souls who have
passed, guiding them back fromthe realm of the dead to the
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world of the living.
Among the most impressive is themonumental altar, built by local
students adorned by nearly 1,500candles, intricately crafted
paper coffins and other symbolshonoring the dead.
Guiding tours and storytellingbring the cemetery's legends to
life, highlighting the storiesof the spirits like Nachito, the
(28:39):
Johnsons, and others said to beespecially active during this
sacred time.
At night the cemetery takes onan almost otherworldly glow.
The mix of incense, flickeringlights, and the distant sound of
music creates a space where theliving and the dead seem to
meet.
Visitors whisper their wishes,share memories, and sometimes
(28:59):
claim to feel the presence ofthose long gone.
The Pantalante Bilin de TodosMosuertos is more than a
celebration.
It's a reminder that history,legend, and memory are
intertwined, and that thestories of the dead continue to
move through the living, keepingtheir spirits alive in both
beautiful and haunting ways.
(29:20):
For now the stories of thePantalante Bilin slip back into
stone, and the dead return totheir uneasy rest, yet they're
never silent for long.
Thank you for walking with usthrough the veil into the
Patalante Bilin, descending oncemore into the hauntings of
history.
The gate is sealed, the veildrawn, yet death gives no
(29:41):
calendar, and so we shallreturn, as we always do, on the
grim.
unknown (30:01):
Time.
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