The cries of Ana Salazar Esparza rang through the stone walls. She had survived the attack, but her husband Jose Gregorio was killed while manning a cannon lose to where his wife was hidden. Ana watched as her dear young soldier suffered a mortal blow to the side by a swift sword and then took a bullet in the chest, knocking him backwards with an inhuman force. He was twenty-six years old. They were newlyweds. As he fell to the ground spilling blood near her feet, the carnage burned into her mind’s eye; the indelible impression would feed her mournful sobbing for some time to come. But 160 years?
During a routine inventory of the Alamo gift shop in 1994, employees sequestered in the basement were interrupted from their tasks by the eerie sounds of a woman wailing. The noises were coming from behind the walls and they continued on relentlessly. Inventory lasted for two days and so did the crying, frequently reducing the employees—the ones who hadn’t fled already, that is—to tears themselves. This is just one account of the strange goings on that have been recorded as the Alamo’s second history.