When I was a kid in London, my parents used to take the family on haunted weekends. We'd go to castles, old manor homes and rectories, and after dinner we'd walk with flickering candelabras through dungeons, secret passageways, overgrown gardens and spiderweb-filled attics looking for ghosts. I remember noises, creaks, groans, cold spots, but no ephemeral encounter. But I'd been bitten by that euphoric combination of dread, fear and thrill that rippled up my spine, exiting the back of my neck with a hair-raising tingle. I'm always the first to sign up for ghost tours when I travel and love the local stories of otherworldly encounters and unquiet places. When I first visited Old San Juan with its interesting mix of magic and the familiar, its stoic fortifications and 400-year-old buildings, and the belief that esp¿ritu, spirits of the dead, roam the island by night, I knew I'd found a world ripe for nocturnal exploration. And with this thought, I step from my room and hotel to roam the calles in search of nightlife and a good asopao.