The Haunted Castillo de San Marcos in St. Augustine

Night in the Ancient City brings a peculiar silence. On the moonlit shore of Matanzas Bay, the old fortress stands guard—a hulking silhouette of coquina stone and shadow. Salt breezes whisper through its battlements, carrying the briny scent of the sea and something else, something sweet. A lone palm rustles nearby as if in hushed conversation with the past. The air is thick with memory. Beneath the distant cry of a gull, one might catch the faint cadence of phantom footsteps along the ramparts or a whisper too soft to be the wind. Castillo de San Marcos looms in darkness, timeless and brooding, keeping its secrets close. In this moment, St. Augustine’s oldest sentinel feels alive with more than history.

History of Castillo de San Marcos

The story of Castillo de San Marcos begins in blood and fire. In 1668, long before “Haunted St. Augustine” became a whisper on any tongue, English pirates crept into the Spanish colonial town under the veil of night. The raid was swift and brutal—wooden homes and the flimsy wooden fort by the harbor went up in flames. Dozens of villagers were killed, and the survivors huddled in terror as their ancient city burned. When dawn broke over the smoking ruins, it was clear that Spain’s foothold in Florida would not last without stronger defenses. Thus, out of the ashes of that nightmare, the idea for a mighty stone fortress was born.

In October 1672, construction of the Castillo de San Marcos began, rising on the western shore of Matanzas Bay. Indigenous laborers and Spanish engineers toiled under the blistering sun to quarry an unusual local stone called coquina. This coarse limestone, made of compacted seashells, was unlike the hard granite of European castles. It was porous and soft to the touch—a curious choice, some thought, for a fort meant to withstand cannon fire. But Governor Manuel de Cendoya and the chief engineer, Ignacio Daza, had faith in its hidden strength. As block by block of coquina was laid into formidable walls, a distinctive four-point star shape emerged. The design eliminated blind spots, allowing cannons on each bastion to cover approaches from every angle. Within these curtain walls, a broad central courtyard took form, with storerooms, living quarters, and a chapel built into the thick ramparts. A deep moat encircled the fort, dry most of the time but engineered to flood if needed. Piece by piece, the Castillo became an impregnable refuge for a town in constant peril.

For 23 years, the people of St. Augustine poured their hope and labor into the fortress. By 1695, the Castillo de San Marcos stood complete – an austere geometrical giant of stone, mortar, and pride. Its walls measured up to 19 feet thick at the base, tapering slightly toward the top. Within those limestone layers, the very essence of the city was embedded. And not a moment too soon, for war was coming once more.

In 1702, the thunder of cannons echoed across Matanzas Bay as English forces out of the Carolina colonies laid siege to St. Augustine. Residents fled into the Castillo’s courtyard, crowding together as British cannonballs hurtled toward them. Day after day, explosions shook the ground. Yet an almost miraculous thing happened: the coquina walls did not shatter. Cannonballs burrowed into the soft shell-rock and stuck fast, as if the fortress were swallowing the shot and refusing to yield. Inside, women soothed crying infants and men stood guard with muskets, all the while praying the walls would hold. They did. For fifty nights the barrage continued, but the Castillo never fell. Frustrated and running low on supplies, the invaders set the town ablaze in spite and finally withdrew. When the townspeople emerged from their stone sanctuary, they found the wooden buildings of St. Augustine charred and smoldering—but the Castillo de San Marcos stood virtually unscathed, a savior in stone.

Decades later, in 1740, the scene replayed with another siege. British General James Oglethorpe from Georgia attacked with cannons and a hungry determination to take the fort. Once again, St. Augustine’s population packed themselves into the Castillo’s protective embrace. For 27 days, Oglethorpe’s guns pounded the walls and ships blockaded the bay. Inside the fort, food and water dwindled; fear and hope mingled in the close, humid air of the casemates. Yet again the strange coquina absorbed the fury of bombardment. Cannon fire merely thudded and lodged in the thick ramparts. Ultimately, Oglethorpe too abandoned his assault. The Castillo de San Marcos earned a fearsome reputation: a fortress that simply would not yield. Through two major sieges and a dozen lesser skirmishes, it had never been taken by force. Its very walls carried the triumph and trauma of those days—the smoke of gunpowder, the prayers of the besieged—etched into every stone.

After the wars between empires subsided, the old fort became a bargaining chip in international treaties. In 1763, Spain ceded Florida to Britain in exchange for Havana, and the Union Jack was raised above the Castillo for the first time. The British renamed it Fort St. Mark, repurposing the stalwart fortification as their own colonial stronghold. Red-coated sentries paced the ramparts where Spanish centinelas once stood. For twenty years of British rule, the fort watched over a city that spoke English now, yet the stones remained the same, steeped in older memories. British St. Augustine saw its share of intrigue—Revolutionary War Loyalists fleeing the American colonies took refuge here, and minor plots and prisoner exchanges played out within the Castillo’s walls—but the tides of war never directly reached the fort during that era. When the American Revolution ended in 1783, Britain returned Florida to Spain as part of the peace. And so, in 1784, the cross of Burgundy flag was hoisted again and the Castillo’s Spanish name was restored. New chapters in the fort’s story were about to be written, some with ink, others with blood.

It was during this second Spanish period that whispers of a certain scandal began to drift through the corridors—a whisper of perfume in the air and illicit meetings in shadowed corners. St. Augustine’s garrison welcomed a seasoned officer, Colonel García Martí, and his young wife to the fort shortly after the Spanish reoccupation. With Colonel Martí came his trusted aide, a dashing Captain said to be Manuel Abela. In the daily bustle of military life, few noticed at first the furtive glances between the colonel’s bride and the handsome captain, or how often the two lingered in conversation. But before long, a scent of trouble—quite literally—perfumed the air. Soldiers gossiping in the twilight would later recall how the floral perfume worn by the colonel’s wife clung to Captain Abela’s uniform on more than one occasion. The tale of these ill-fated lovers, and the colonel’s dark revenge, would become one of the Castillo’s most enduring legends. Yet in the official record of the fort, their fate passed unmentioned. History kept its formal face, while the walls quietly absorbed the truth.

By 1821, a new flag flew over St. Augustine. Spain, crumbling as an imperial power, ceded Florida to the young United States. The venerable fortress was handed over peacefully—transferred by pen and ink rather than cannon and sword. The U.S. Army renamed it Fort Marion, in honor of an American Revolutionary hero, but its coquina bulwarks remained unchanged. Under the American banner, the fort’s purpose shifted from colonial stronghold to prison and barracks. Confined within these old walls now were not just soldiers but also the subjugated: prisoners of war, revolutionaries, and Native Americans whose lands were overrun by America’s expansion.

One of the darkest episodes in Fort Marion’s history came during the Second Seminole War. In 1837, under a flag of truce, the Seminole leader Osceola walked through the fort’s gates—only to be deceitfully seized and shackled in the casemates. Betrayed and imprisoned, Osceola fell gravely ill during captivity. Though he was moved to another fort where he died a few months later, the indignity he suffered at Fort Marion did not end with his last breath. In a grim act that shocked even that era’s sensibilities, a military doctor took Osceola’s severed head as a macabre souvenir, displaying it in St. Augustine for a time. Such cruelty left an indelible stain on the Castillo’s legacy. Many other Seminole prisoners languished in the fort’s windowless cells—some perishing far from their homeland in the dank darkness beneath the stone vaults. Not all resigned themselves to fate: another Seminole leader, Coacoochee (Wild Cat), famously staged a daring escape from Fort Marion. Along with a handful of compatriots, he squeezed his body through a narrow embrasure high in a cell wall after patiently starving himself to slip through the bars. On a moonlit night, they dropped into the moat and slipped away, the guards none the wiser until morning. That night the fort failed, for once, to hold its captives. One can imagine the shock of the sentries at dawn, and the quiet satisfaction of those stones in witnessing the cunning triumph of the imprisoned.

As decades marched on, Fort Marion’s role evolved yet again. When the Civil War erupted in 1861, St. Augustine fell into Confederate hands briefly; local militia claimed the fort without a fight. But by 1862, Union forces had arrived by gunboat, and the gray uniforms fled, abandoning the ancient citadel. A new garrison of Union blue took up posts on the familiar parapets. Through the war, Fort Marion saw little combat. It served as a backwater post, a silent giant that changed hands but never came under bombardment. One can almost picture the ghosts of Spanish and British soldiers looking on as Americans drilled on the old parade ground, muskets replaced by rifles but the daily routines of soldiering much the same.

After the cannons of the Civil War fell silent, the old fort by the bay found itself housing yet more prisoners—this time from far beyond Florida. In the 1870s, the fort’s stone chambers were used to incarcerate Plains Indians captured in the American West. Scores of Cheyenne, Kiowa, and other warriors—some with their families—were transported by train to Fort Marion as prisoners of war. Under Lieutenant Richard Pratt’s command, a controversial experiment unfolded: the attempt to “civilize” the Native prisoners through education and strict regimen. The once warlike fortress transformed into an uncanny boarding school and jail combined. Proud warriors who had ridden the plains now sat within these walls learning English, drilling in uniforms, sketching artwork on paper—yearning for freedom under the gaze of the very fort that confined them. Some adapted; others despaired. A few died in captivity and were quietly buried in a strange soil far from home. In the still of some oppressively hot afternoons, the sounds of soft singing in Kiowa or Cheyenne would drift out from the courtyards, voices of men remembering home. The coquina walls listened and remembered these laments too, adding them to the fort’s long litany of sorrow and endurance.

By the turn of the 20th century, the age of fortresses had passed. In 1900, Fort Marion was decommissioned as an active military post. What had begun as a bastion of empire was now an aging relic. Yet it was far from forgotten. Locals and visitors alike felt the significance of this place. In 1924, recognizing its importance, the U.S. government declared the fort a National Monument, ensuring its preservation. And in 1942, as a nod to its multicultural past, the fort was officially given back its Spanish name: Castillo de San Marcos. Its walls, by then over 250 years old, had witnessed the rise and fall of colonial dynasties, the birth of a nation, and innumerable personal dramas within and around them. With its cannons now silent and only the echoes of history in its corridors, one might think the Castillo’s story had come to a gentle end as a museum piece. But in truth, a new chapter was alive and growing—one steeped in whispers and wonder, in the uncanny and unexplained. The history of Castillo de San Marcos was not only written in dates and treaties, but also in the chills that prickled human skin when no breeze blew, in the feelings that swept over visitors standing alone in an empty casemate. The old fortress held more than just the memory of wars. It held onto the spirits of those who had lived and died within its embrace.

And at night, when the crowds are gone and the ancient city sleeps, the past stirs. The line between history and legend blurs within Castillo de San Marcos. Those who come seeking the stories behind the stones—the curious, the brave, and the lovers of haunted history—will find that this fortress has much to tell. For as long as anyone can remember, the guides of Destination Ghost Tours and local storytellers have shared tales of eerie encounters here. The fort’s official history is rich enough, but it’s the unofficial history—the ghostly lore and lingering legends—that truly captures the imagination. In the heavy darkness under Spanish moss and stars, the ghost stories of St. Augustine come alive at this very site.

Ghosts and Legends of the Old Fort

For generations, Castillo de San Marcos has been the nucleus of haunted St. Augustine, a place where documented accounts and whispered legends intertwine. By day, the fort is a monument to history—cannons poised silently at the walls, park rangers guiding wide-eyed visitors through powder magazines and barracks rooms. But when dusk falls and the last light drains from the sky, an uncanny metamorphosis occurs. The temperature drops slightly, even in summer. The stone corridors seem to listen. Many who wander near the fort at night have felt it: a prickling sensation on the skin, as if unseen eyes are watching from the embrasures and crenels. It is in these hushed hours that the ghosts of the Castillo are said to awaken, roaming the grounds where they met their fate or where their deepest emotions were etched into the very fabric of the place.

The Legend of the Lovers

Among all the tales, one stands out as the most tragic and romantic—the saga of Colonel García Martí’s wife, Dolores, and her forbidden lover. This legend has been passed down in hushed tones on St. Augustine ghost tours, told with elegant restraint by those who know it well. They say that in the mid-1780s, during the Spanish reoccupation, the fort’s commanding officer was an older, duty-obsessed man whose young wife, Dolores Martí, often found herself alone and longing for affection. She found solace in the company of Captain Manuel Abela, her husband’s junior officer and a charismatic presence nearer to her own age. As the story goes, their secret meetings were hidden among the dim corridors and secluded corners of the Castillo. Late evenings when the thick walls held the day’s heat, Dolores would slip away from her quarters to meet Manuel under the guise of night. Perhaps a few sympathetic soldiers turned a blind eye, or perhaps the pair truly believed they could carry on unseen.

Fate was not kind to the two lovers. Suspicion eventually took root in Colonel Martí’s mind—some say a fellow officer tipped him off, others that he noticed Dolores’s spirited glow on mornings after Manuel’s duties kept him late at the fort. The most enduring detail is the perfume: Dolores was known to wear a distinctive jasmine perfume that announced her presence even before she entered a room. One fateful day, Colonel Martí greeted Captain Abela in his office. As they shook hands, Martí caught a unmistakable whiff of that same floral fragrance clinging to the young captain’s uniform. In that moment, the colonel’s worst fears were confirmed. A cold rage seized his heart. But Colonel Martí was nothing if not controlled—he let no sign of his discovery show. He simply nodded and dismissed Abela as usual.

That very night, Dolores and Manuel vanished. Without a cry, without a witness, they disappeared behind the fort’s impenetrable walls as if swallowed by the darkness itself. Come morning, anxious friends searched the town’s sandy streets and the nearby mission, but to no avail. Colonel Martí, stern and unflinching, offered explanations with a polite sorrow: His wife had fallen gravely ill, he said, and was sent away to recuperate with relatives. As for the captain, urgent orders had purportedly reassigned Manuel Abela to an outpost in Cuba on short notice. Though the excuses rang hollow, the Colonel’s authority was absolute. In an era without instant communication, who could immediately refute him? The garrison’s doubts were kept to murmurs. Soon, new soldiers rotated in, years passed, and the strange disappearance of a colonel’s wife and a young officer became an uneasy footnote in the fort’s lore.

It was only many years later, long after Colonel Martí himself had left St. Augustine, that the chilling finale to this tale surfaced—literally from within the walls. According to local legend, during the 1820s after the Americans had taken over the fort, an American lieutenant stationed at Fort Marion grew curious about a section of wall in a dank corner of the dungeon. The room had always felt unnaturally small, and he noticed a hollow sound when he rapped upon one plastered partition. Gathering a few men and some tools, he set to work removing a layer of bricks. What they found sent a jolt of horror through the fort’s company. Behind the false wall was a hidden crawlspace scarcely large enough for two human bodies. The stench of stale air and something sweet—sickly sweet, like decayed perfume—wafted out. There, in the flicker of lamplight, they saw human skeletons chained upright to the inner wall. The rusted iron shackles and tattered remnants of European clothing gave hints of a ghastly truth. Those bones, covered in decades of dust, were believed to be all that remained of Dolores and her beloved Captain Abela. The secret of their disappearance was laid bare: Colonel Martí had entombed them alive. In a calculated act of vengeance, he had sealed his wife and her lover in that airless cell, leaving them to a slow, silent death in darkness.

Though official records never confirmed the discovery (some say the Army quietly re-sealed the chamber and kept it quiet to avoid scandal), the legend took on a life of its own. And with it came sightings and sensations that persist to this day. Visitors exploring the Castillo’s lower rooms have reported a sudden, strong aroma of flowery perfume that arises out of nowhere and just as quickly fades. It is not the mild, powdery scent of old stone and lime one might expect; it is cloying jasmine, overwhelmingly sweet and oddly out of place in the stale ocean air. Often it comes with a prickle of cold that raises goosebumps on the skin. Tour guides and guests alike have paused in those dungeon corridors when the fragrance hits, exchanging knowing glances—for many believe this is Dolores announcing her presence. She was a sociable, lively soul in life (so the story paints her), and in death it seems her ghost cannot resist drawing near to the living who walk her prison. Some have followed the perfumed trail only to find no one there, just a lingering sadness that is hard to put into words. It is as though Dolores drifts past as an unseen sigh, yearning to be acknowledged.

On moonlit nights, a few have even claimed to see a pale figure along the fort’s outer ramparts—a woman in a diaphanous white dress, gazing silently out to sea. She is often described as The Woman in White, her face obscured by shadow but her sorrow palpable to those who witness her. This apparition glides as if in a trance, retracing a path she walked in happier days. Locals believe this is Dolores’s restless spirit, escaping the confines of that walled-up tomb and searching endlessly for Manuel under the night sky. Her presence is not accompanied by fear so much as profound melancholy. People who chance upon the Woman in White often speak of an overwhelming sadness washing over them, a wave of emotion that does not feel entirely their own. It’s as if, for a fleeting moment, Dolores lets them feel the aching loss that binds her soul to this place.

And what of Manuel Abela, the young captain whose love was equally betrayed? Legend holds that his spirit, too, remains tethered to the Castillo. There are reports—some from soldiers centuries ago, others from modern visitors—of a solitary male figure standing atop the northeast bastion after dark, where he used to keep watch. He is seen from a distance, a man in an old Spanish uniform, face turned toward the horizon. Sometimes a light, like the faint glow of a lantern, accompanies him, flickering and then extinguishing. When patrols or curious onlookers approach, the figure dissipates into the night air. Many are convinced this is Manuel’s ghost, keeping eternal vigil. In life, he waited for secret meetings with Dolores along these ramparts; in death, he waits still, never abandoning the post where he once scanned the darkness for a sign of his beloved. On rare occasions, witnesses have heard footfalls echoing on the stone stairs leading up to the wall, as if someone invisible were ascending to that meeting place—perhaps answering the soft rustle of a gown that they cannot see, the approach of Dolores’s ghost herself.

Together, the ghosts of Dolores and Manuel form the heart of the Castillo’s folklore. Their love and fate intertwine with the heavy fabric of history here. It is a tale recounted with reverence by tour guides, including those from Destination Ghost Tours, who ensure the legend lives on with each retelling. Yet, as romantically tragic as their story is, it is but one of the many specters said to roam this fort. The lovers’ presence is usually gentle—a waft of perfume, a mournful apparition. Elsewhere in the Castillo, other entities make themselves known in less tender ways.

Shadows of the Battlefield

Not all ghosts at Castillo de San Marcos originate from rumor; some rise directly from the pages of its verified history. The violence of war and captivity has left its imprint, and certain nights seem to replay echoes of conflicts long past. There are accounts from reliable witnesses of strange, flickering lights atop the fort’s walls when no one is there—flashes reminiscent of musket fire or the spark of cannon fuse seen from the corner of one’s eye. Sometimes the distant boom of a cannon is heard rolling across the bay at night, so thunderous that sleeping residents have awoken, thinking a thunderstorm or naval exercise is underway. Yet the skies are clear and the waters empty. These sounds are never recorded on any official ledger; they belong to the unseen battle that some believe continues in ghostly form. Perhaps it is a residual memory of those sieges—the cries of embattled soldiers and townsfolk etched so deeply into the coquina that, on occasion, the fort “remembers” with a phantom barrage. Indeed, some late-night passersby have sworn they saw brief bursts of light along the gun deck, like the firing of an invisible cannon, followed by that low rumble. By the time they blink and focus their gaze, the ramparts lie dark and silent as if nothing ever happened.

Along with these spectral battle echoes come more intimate sounds: faint moans and cries wafting from the casemates, indistinct shouts in Spanish or English that trail off into sighs. A guard lock-up room near the old powder magazine has a particularly heavy atmosphere—some say unbearably so. On ghost tours, guides often pause outside that chamber and simply let the silence speak. It’s not uncommon for those in the group to shift uncomfortably, sensing a weight around them, as if the air itself remembers fear. On occasion, an investigator or attuned visitor has entered alone and emerged visibly shaken, claiming they heard a man sobbing in the darkness or felt a sudden clutch on their arm. These are not fanciful embellishments but experiences shared time and again by different people, lending them a certain credibility among the paranormal community. The notion that agony and despair might linger tangibly in a place is unsettling, yet standing in those cramped, stifling cells, one finds it all too easy to believe. The Castillo held many unfortunates: prisoners of war chained in damp corners, pirates awaiting execution, deserters spending a night in punishment. Their suffering did not always die with them; something remains, an echo imprinted on the environment like a faded script on old parchment, legible only to those willing to look closely.

The Headless Chief

Of all the spirits purported to wander the Castillo, few inspire as much dread—and sympathy—as the apparition of a headless Seminole warrior. This haunting ties directly to the tragic fate of Chief Osceola, one of the fort’s most infamous prisoners. While Osceola’s body did not expire within these walls, the betrayal that led to his capture and the grotesque aftermath of his death have bound his legacy to St. Augustine’s old fort. Park rangers and visitors have often heard the question whispered: “Does Osceola’s ghost haunt this place?” Many believe it does. There are recorded accounts from decades past of park staff encountering a tall, broad-shouldered shadow in the pre-dawn light—an outline of a man pacing inside the fort’s courtyard where the Native prisoners were once exercised. When they approach to address what they assume is an intruder, the figure reportedly vanishes behind a corner, impossible to catch. More chilling are the stories from some who claim to have seen, just briefly, a figure without a head drifting near the old prison cells. One visitor, pale as the moon, recounted stumbling upon such a sight on a quiet afternoon: a spectral form in buckskin and leggings, unmistakably present yet missing its face and head above the shoulders. In utter disbelief, she closed her eyes and opened them again—by then it was gone. She later learned of Osceola’s beheading after death and connected the dots.

Though skeptics dismiss such tales as tricks of light or imagination, even the skeptical find themselves hushed in the cell where Osceola was once confined. The atmosphere there is oppressively still. Electronic instruments used by paranormal researchers have picked up unaccountable cold spots in that area—a sudden chill in an otherwise warm room, often accompanied by spikes in electromagnetic readings. Some tourists, not knowing whose cell they stand in, have remarked “it feels sad in here” or asked if someone died on that spot. A few nights each year—often around the anniversary of Osceola’s capture in October—stories circulate of disembodied voices speaking in Muscogee (the Seminole language) or the sound of rattling chains heard when the fort is empty. Could it be the Seminole leader and his braves, protesting their imprisonment even beyond the grave? Or perhaps other Native spirits, those who died anonymously here, making their sorrow known?

In a particularly grisly twist to the lore, some have spread a tale of a floating spectral head seen late at night near the outer walls. Described as a fleeting, translucent visage of a Native man, contorted in silent anguish, it allegedly appears and then fades when approached. While such a vivid image verges on the fantastical and is not widely reported by credible sources, it has become part of Castillo legend. More prevalent are the simpler signs: a heaviness and anger felt in the cell where indigenous prisoners were kept, a sense of being unwelcome. Sensitive visitors—those who claim a sixth sense for spirits—have reported a sudden onslaught of emotions in that space, from seething anger to deep despair, crashing over them without warning. They sometimes leave in tears or short of breath, convinced they had momentarily felt what those long-dead captives felt. To walk the Castillo’s chambers with this awareness is to understand that the haunted history of St. Augustine isn’t just merry ghost tales—it’s intertwined with true injustices and grief that have left their mark. Osceola’s mistreatment was one such injustice, and if ever a soul had reason to be restless, it was he. Thus, when an unexplained shadow skitters along a wall or a tourist inexplicably shivers in the subtropical heat near his cell, locals nod knowingly and speak the Seminole war-chief’s name in respect.

Soldiers Still on Duty

Even beyond specific individuals, the Castillo de San Marcos teems with accounts of soldiers who seemingly never left their posts. Over 300 years, armies of different nations garrisoned these walls. Many men lived and died within sight of the fort’s flag, whether it was the banner of Spain, Britain, or the United States. It’s no wonder that some of those dutiful spirits might feel a continued obligation to guard the fort or maintain order. Numerous visitors and staff have encountered an inexplicable phenomenon: the distinct sound of heavy booted footsteps echoing through empty rooms. In the stillness of early morning or after closing at night, the rhythmic clack of hard-soled boots reverberates down a corridor as if an invisible patrol is making rounds. Often, the sounds stop abruptly when one turns the corner, revealing not a soul in sight. On one memorable occasion, a park ranger locking up at twilight heard footsteps following him so closely that he spun around, expecting a colleague—only to be greeted by emptiness and the last rays of sun slanting through an embrasure. He admitted later that he felt foolish for whispering, “Can I help you?” into the void, half expecting an answer from an unseen soldier of long ago.

Other phenomena suggest that some garrison members partake in a bit of ghostly leisure when off-duty. One exhibit in the fort today is a recreated soldiers’ barracks room, complete with rough cots and a long wooden bench. A few years back, a maintenance worker opening up in the morning entered that room and was startled to find one of the cots depressed, as if someone were lying upon it. The impression of a body was clear in the indent of the blanket, yet no one was there. After a moment’s shock, the worker composed himself and approached; the depression slowly eased away before his eyes, the fabric rising flat again. He later joked that perhaps a tired soldier’s spirit had been enjoying a rest and jumped up when he opened the door. These playful, harmless occurrences indicate residual energy—like the echo of a routine so ingrained that it continues long after flesh and bone are gone. Indeed, even visitors have felt a sudden urge to step aside in certain narrow hallways, muttering apologies as though someone were trying to pass, though no living person was near. It is as if old soldiers carrying supplies or marching to drill still bustle about, just out of sight.

Yet not all these ghostly guards are benign. There are reports of an invisible sentry who does not take kindly to intruders in specific areas. Near the powder magazine—where volatile gunpowder was stored behind thick walls, and where on at least one occasion prisoners were also kept—people have described a forceful physical encounter. A tourist lingering near that chamber once felt a distinct shove on his back, as if a strong hand had thrust him away from the door. Stumbling forward, he turned, expecting to chastise a prankster, but found only his bewildered wife several feet away, far too distant to have pushed him. On another instance, a paranormal investigation team’s medium was exploring that same vicinity when she yelped and staggered backward, later explaining that she had felt a sudden hard pressure against her shoulder accompanied by a deep sense of hostility. Those who experience it often report a strange thought popping into their head at that moment—an authoritative male voice growling, “Leave now” or “Get out.” It’s never actually heard aloud, just internally sensed. Could this be a long-dead guard enforcing an old rule, preventing anyone from entering a sensitive area after hours? Or perhaps the spirit of an officer still zealously protecting the fort’s munitions from wandering guests? Whatever the cause, the effect is unnerving even to the bravest souls.

There have even been sightings to match these sensations. One of the Castillo’s most enduring ghostly images is that of a spectral sentry patrolling the walls by night. Descriptions vary slightly, but most agree it appears as a man in an antiquated uniform—sometimes the outline is suggestive of a Spanish colonial soldier with a wide-brimmed hat, other times more like an American Civil War era coat. In each account, he carries a lantern that emits a feeble, bluish flame. The guard is typically observed from ground level, walking along the top of the fort’s outer wall or standing at a bastion point gazing outward. Unlike flesh-and-blood guards, he moves without sound. Those who call out to him get no response. One local couple, strolling along the seawall late at night, spotted what they thought was a park ranger with a lantern and old-fashioned garb; they looked away for a moment, puzzled by the archaic dress, and when they looked back the figure was gone—impossible for a real person to have disappeared so quickly from the fully exposed wall. Such sightings have been shared for over a century: a lantern bobbing and a vigilant figure pacing the perimeter, keeping eternal watch. The Castillo, it seems, still has its garrison on duty, incorporeal as they may be.

Restless Prisoners and Lost Souls

Beyond lovers and soldiers, the Castillo’s long history as a prison has also populated it with ghosts of the desperate and damned. One particularly macabre tale speaks of an English privateer (some call him Andrew, a name plucked from colonial records) who was executed at the fort in the late 1600s. In life he had attacked St. Augustine and been caught; in death he met a slow strangulation at the garrote as a crowd looked on near the fort’s wall. While history suggests a certain Andrew Ranson survived execution miraculously and was spared, the ghost story version prefers a darker end. They say the buccaneer’s spirit never left. Visitors occasionally report, in the quiet dawn light or dusk, a fleeting image of a man hanging in midair against the fort’s outer wall—a grim silhouette that appears where the gallows once stood. Others have described a misty figure in tattered 17th-century seafarer’s clothes wandering near that area, as if confused and lost. He is often noted to have a collapsed, canted neck, his head lolling unnaturally to one side. Such a spine-chilling sight is rare, but those who have seen it were deeply unnerved. More common is an oppressive feeling of dread when standing at that execution ground. Even without knowledge of its history, people feel the urge to move on quickly, as though under the gaze of something truly menacing. Unlike Dolores’s mournful perfume or Osceola’s righteous anger, this presence radiates malice—a reminder that not every soul trapped in the Castillo’s walls was innocent or noble. Some were violent men who met violent ends, and their energy, too, might linger.

In the deepest recesses of the fort, an area known as the dark cell has spawned its own grim legend. This tiny, completely unlit room was used to hold prisoners in isolation. It has one small ventilation slit and walls that seem to close in around you. Many hardened soldiers and convicts reportedly begged to be spared a night in this cell, saying that once the iron door closed and darkness engulfed them, they felt “the devil himself” pressed in. In modern times, that cell is a magnet for ghost hunters and curious tourists. Those brave enough to step inside often regret it. One psychic medium who entered as part of a documentary filming lasted only minutes before screaming to be let out. She emerged shaking, claiming that a hateful presence in the cell had rushed at her, trying to choke her or drive her mad with a barrage of angry voices. Skeptical crew members might have dismissed this as theatrics, except that audio recorders placed in the cell did pick up something unusual—a low growl and a series of unexplained knocks on the stone walls, as if someone unseen were pounding to get out. Another visitor, unaware of the cell’s reputation, stepped in and immediately stumbled back, later describing that it felt as if an invisible figure had been standing inches from the door, glaring at him face-to-face in the blackness. These encounters suggest that some prisoners never escaped their solitary torment. They are stuck in loops of rage or confusion, and they do not take kindly to the living invading their last known space.

Even in areas under the open sky, the spirits of prisoners make themselves known. After a rain, when the fort’s courtyard is quiet, a few individuals have reported hearing the soft clank of chains and a shuffle in the grassy expanse. At first, one might attribute it to the echo of footsteps on the old drawbridge or distant city sounds. But those who listen closely notice a pattern: it starts near the old chapel corner (once used as a makeshift cell in harsh times), moves slowly across the yard, then stops abruptly as if the chained soul recalling its futile bid for freedom fades back into memory. Occasionally, snippets of faint words accompany it, incomprehensible but laden with pain. Some swear these are prayers or pleas, maybe in Spanish or an indigenous language, uttered by prisoners who faced their end at dawn’s firing squad or in the fetid holds of the fort.

All these phenomena—fragrances, apparitions, sounds, touches—have been documented in one form or another over the years. Paranormal researchers have flocked to Castillo de San Marcos with cameras, voice recorders, and instruments, often leaving astonished by the results. Photographs show strange orbs of light flitting near the lovers’ wall, or misty shapes where none should be. Audio devices have captured voices that respond to questions with uncanny relevance: a clear “No” when asked if someone was trapped, or even names whispered in empty chambers. One chilling recording features a deep voice murmuring what several interpreters believe is “Salid de aquí” (Spanish for “get out of here”) in the vicinity of the powder magazine—perhaps our stern ghost sentry making his stance known. Such findings bolster what locals have believed all along: the Castillo is not only a monument of stone but also a vessel of spirits. It’s an archives of emotions, from love to fury, despair to duty, replaying snippets of the past to those willing to listen.

Yet, despite all this supernatural activity, the tone of the Castillo’s hauntings is largely in harmony with its history. These ghosts do not appear as random phantoms; they are echoes of history, souls tied to pivotal moments and passions of this place. Dolores’s perfume, Osceola’s shadow, the sentry’s lantern—they all underscore real events and people who lived here. This is what makes Castillo de San Marcos so much more than a haunted house concocted for thrills. The fort’s paranormal side is a direct continuation of its historical narrative, a poignant reminder that the past is never truly dead as long as someone remembers, or as long as some imprint of it endures to remind us. In this way, the ghosts are like guides themselves, pointing us to the tales of war, love, betrayal, and courage that might otherwise be forgotten within cold dates and dusty archives.

A Lingering Presence

As the night deepens, St. Augustine’s bayfront falls silent again. The Castillo de San Marcos stands immutable, its weathered stones bathed in silver moonlight. Within, all is still—but it is not empty. One can almost sense a gathering of shadows in the courtyard, like figures from different eras convening under the stars. Perhaps a Spanish musketeer leans against the rampart, exchanging a silent nod with a Seminole warrior in buckskin. Perhaps a lady in a white gown passes through them all, her face lined with eternal sorrow, searching endlessly. These images flit through the mind unbidden when you stand before the old fort after dark. The veil between past and present thins to transparency. In those moments, the haunted history of St. Augustine is not confined to textbooks or tour scripts; it lives and breathes around you.

What is it about this ancient fortress that leaves such a mark on those who visit? Maybe it’s the sheer weight of years and events layered upon one another. Castillo de San Marcos has endured every extreme of the human condition: fear and relief, love and hate, victory and defeat. The coquina walls have absorbed laughter from soldiers’ barracks, fervent prayers whispered by families huddled in siege, the silence of prisoners awaiting unknown fates. Stand still within the fort’s walls, and you may feel it—a vibration at the edge of hearing, like a held breath or a heartbeat long stopped. The rational mind knows it’s imagination, but the old fort invites you to believe otherwise, just for a while. It’s an experience many have had: arriving as a skeptic to a Destination Ghost Tours story session at the Castillo’s walls, and leaving with a new respect for the mysteries that history can impart. Even the most jaded visitors find themselves moved, a subtle unease accompanying them out of the fort as if something unseen were following at their shoulder until they step back into the glow of streetlights and modern life.

In the quiet predawn hours, Castillo de San Marcos finally finds a brief peace. The last ghosts seem to retreat as a thin mist rises off the bay and the first seabirds stir. Dawn’s light will soon gild the stone battlements, and another day will bring throngs of sightseers and schoolchildren skipping over drawbridges. The fortress will play the role of educational landmark and picturesque backdrop once more. Yet, when the crowds gush about the stunning views and fascinating exhibits, a few sensitive souls will linger in a shadowed corner, sniffing at the air for a trace of jasmine or listening for the echo of distant footsteps. The fort’s dual identity—as historic monument and haunted realm—remains intact.

Ultimately, the tale of the Castillo de San Marcos is a testament to how alive history can be within the places that witnessed it. St. Augustine is a city of ghosts in many ways, where every old house and street seems to carry a memory. But nowhere is this more true than within the thick walls of the Castillo. Here, the past has refused to rest. The tragedies and dreams of long-dead inhabitants have mingled with the salt breeze and candle smoke, refusing to dissipate. They welcome those who come in wonder and respect, and warn those who come with folly or malice. In the Castillo’s enduring presence, we find a bridge between worlds—the temporal and the eternal, the factual and the fantastical.

As you leave the fort at the end of the night, you might glance back over your shoulder. If you’re lucky—or perhaps unlucky, depending on your view—you may catch one last glimpse: a faint figure atop the wall, lantern in hand, making his rounds. Or a wisp of white near the old stone sentry box, gone as quickly as it came. Or simply the sense that you are not, and will never be, entirely alone here. Castillo de San Marcos keeps its watch, and so do those who once gave their lives to it. The ancient fortress stands as a monument not only to the ambitions of empires, but to the people whose spirits form the true tapestry of its being. In their echoes—in perfume on the breeze, in ghostly footfalls, in phantom lights—we find the real ghost stories of St. Augustine, written in every weathered block of coquina. These echoes in stone invite us to listen, to remember, and to feel a shiver of connection with those who walked these halls before. And as the last stars fade and morning tide comes in, one can almost hear a sigh from the old fort—a gentle exhale as the past settles back into its deep, secret places, waiting for night to fall again.