The Dark Somnium - This is what Really Happened to Andersonsburg Pennsylvania

Episode Date: December 18, 2023

This Creepypasta Scary Story is from the nosleep subreddit, writte by jesseClark, make sure to check out the original story and support the author!"What Really Happened to Andersonsburg, Pennsylvania, in April of 1829"https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/6fnscm/what_really_happened_to_andersonsburg/ Hosted by Simplecast, an AdsWizz company. See pcm.adswizz.com for information about our collection and use of personal data for advertising.

Perhaps you've heard of Andersonburg, the old western Pennsylvania town that like Roanoke before it, suffered a mysterious end and left no accounted survivors to enlighten anyone as to the details of its fate. Luckily, that may no longer be the case. I've joined a university-funded expedition here, and have been tasked with collecting items of value that can hopefully assist in our search for knowledge pertaining to the curious fate of the city. After some exhausting work, I did indeed come across a diary that is by far the most informative

document yet on earth. I'll check the contents for veracity at a later date. For now, here are the most relevant excerpts for anyone interested. The 3rd of April, 1829. Another man caught the fever, this time down at the lumber camp. From what I hear, the poor bastard was tying down the logs when he just up and fell right over into the river. almost drowned, I heard.

And when the others got to him, Matthew and Thomas in the lot, they said his face had gone pale as a cloud, and that he was shaking and sweating and coughing. Ain't no mistake in that for nothing but the early signs of the fever. So they hauled the poor fellow out and gave him a canteen and had him rest. But then, without telling him, they struck camp and left him there. I'm not sure what came of him, but everyone knows the mayor's rule. Unstruck with fever are permitted to return to Andersonburg. If they favored enough to survive the thing, unlikely as that sounds, their two remained banished to the woods, with nothing but the clothes on their backs and whatever coin they got in their purse.

Not one of the other lads down at the camp wanted to risk becoming as infected, and meeting such a grisly fate, no, sir. The 4th of April, 1829. By mayor's decree, the lumber camp is to be abandoned, along with all the supplies it's gathered. for fear of being tainted with fever. There was an uproar at the mansion today over that decision. Many men are out of work now because of it, but, strange enough, I didn't see not one of the fellows from camp itself down at the mansion, just their wives and some others. And I know why, too.

They wouldn't admit it out loud, no, sir, but they don't want to go back. I wouldn't either. I've seen the fever at work at Pinefield, and it ain't got no place in my home. Not while I got a wife at home, no, sir. The 7th of April, 1829. Maria says to me today in the kitchen that she can't believe that the mayor would throw so many good men out of jobs. But I say back to her, I don't know, sweetheart, perhaps he's got himself a point. That whole camp has been run clean over with the fever, and you don't want that plague finding

its way around here, no, sir. God himself couldn't stop it if it did. So she snorts and walks away, but she'll come around eventually. especially when the stories of the infected keep coming. If fevers hit the camp, then it's only two or three miles from town. Only a matter of time, I think, before it finds its way here. Got above, I hope I'm wrong, but maybe I should start thinking about taking Maria away for a time to see my brother in Philadelphia. Just till all the foul things conclude here.

11th of April, 1829. A man got shot last night, not a hundred yards from Jim Isley's port. George. Jim says he was delirious, just stumbling around near the tree line without an aim in the world. He calls out to him as he says, declare yourself, you an I'll shoot you dead if you're an Iroquois, old boy. And he said nothing, so shoot him he did. Then Jim sent his boy Nathan into town to fetch a picket while he watched the field, thinking

an Indian attack was brewing. But when Nathan got back with some men in their rifles looking for a good fight, not another Indian has shown his face. So they went out and looked at the body and saw it was something worse. That old infected fellow from the lumber camp found his way back to town in his stupor, and by God, says the men, the fever worked its way through him right quick, says he was rotting inside out, skin falling off like a leper, teeth all filed into those wicked points. So they put their shirts to their noses and mouths, and they set the body to the flame.

They told the story today at the pub, but some of the other gents there took offense to the tale, says they should have told the mayor, says they shouldn't have gone near the corpses. One fellow, Tom Huggins, I think it was, said those men were probably infected too, by virtue of going near even a dead infected. Says the plague lingers after death. Then he bolts out the door and the barkeep asks the storytellers to leave. I left too. Ain't no risk in getting the fever, no sir.

15th of April, 1829. Jim Isley didn't show up at the office today, and all the men there know the story with the infected fellow getting shot, too. So the rumors are swirling. No one's heard from him. His clients are stopping on by, and all as we can say is we ain't seen the fellow come on by later on. So they do, and they ain't happy about it, no, sir. I like old Jim, even if he is a little small-brained.

So I says to myself, I think I'll stop by his house. after closing to see what's the matter. I know I shouldn't, but if he's sick, I'll know for sure and I won't go near the man. I just hope it ain't the fever. God above, I hope it ain't the fever. So I gets to his house around about dusk, and his wife Sarah opens up the door. She's a sweetheart she is, but even though she's putting on a nice big smile for her guest, I can tell she's got a worry on her mind. So I put my hat on my chest and I says, Greetings, ma'am. Just stopping him by to extend my regards to Jim.

He didn't show up at the office today, you see, and I was hoping I could see him. And then her smile fades, and she says, that's mighty kind. But Jim's under the weather, and he won't let her or Nathan in the bedroom. All she knows is he's sweating and having trouble keeping down a meal. Then my smile fades, and I says without a second thought, Sarah, I'm guessing you heard about the guest a week and a half back? The man Jim shot, and she says the Iirquois scout. Jim says he shot him dead.

So I says, Sarah, that weren't no Iirquah scout. That was the infected fellow from the lumber camp. Jim and some of the other fellows burned the body once they saw the skin. And her face goes wide as a ghost, and she just says not to lie to her, to not lie to her about Jim. And she goes and shuts the door in my face. I hope she gets her wits about her and gets Nathan out of there soon. He's a good lad, and she's got a big, kindly heart herself. They don't deserve this.

As luck would have it, though, I ran across Dr. Armistead on the way home, and I tell us him about Jim. Maybe he can help. 16th of April, 1829. Maria wakes me up earlier today, and she says the Isleys are gone, and I'm tired, so at first I don't know what nonsense she's talking. But then I remember Jim and Sarah and Nathan, and I says, What do you mean gone? Dead gone?

And she says, no. The doctor says Jim's got the fever. And so a few men grab their muskets, and they haul the whole Isley family out of their house and toss them right out of the whole town. Some of the men says if they ever come back, they'll shoot him dead. So I feels right guilty for rattling him out, and I throws my cover off and run outside and down the street.

Sure enough, the Isley's home has gone up in smoke. The whole town's out there watching it burn without pity. except the parish, and when I run up, I hears people talking about anyone else who's been in contact with that body of the fellow down at the lumber camp. Then I hears the other names come up, David Brody, John Green, Will Benson Hodges. The towns folks say they got to find him and give them the boot, or else the whole town will get the fever. One last says, why don't we just shoot him?

And another fellow says back to her. Then we'd have to remove the corpse. wouldn't want to go near such a thing, would you? The plague lingers. Better to have them walk right on out of there on their own two feet. But I think to myself, hell, that's almost worse. 18th of April, 1829. The town's all done over in a hysteria, I tell you.

The mayors declared martial law ever since the Isleys and the Brodies and the Greens and the Hodges got evicted. And not a soul is to enter Andersonburg until further notice. You can leave, and he won't. It won't stop you, but you ain't coming back if you do. And the townsfolk will assume your departure means you've been struck with the plague. Then they'll burn your home to ash. I've seen it happen ten times in the last few weeks alone.

These boys ain't playing games, no, sir. There are some of them religious folks talking about how it's God's judgment for sin, and other fellows with muskets patrol on the streets, and every once in a while you'll hear a big old loud crack as he pops off his gun. Because that's the other thing, you see. Them infected, they keep coming back in. 20th of April, 1829. Some of the infected stormed in down Mulberry Street last night, stole some cattle, rattled some doorknobs,

but the militia showed up right quick and drove them off with some sharp musketry. They didn't kill any of them until they'd run out past the wooden palisades. Then they shot him in the back and dropped him like a sack of potatoes, says they. The men have orders to only work. wound if possible, you see, if the men make it inside the town. That's seeing as how a dead infected in the streets is a corpse some poor bastard will have to remove. Then he's struck with the fever too, as far as the town's concerned, and they send him a packing. Needless to say, not a man or child in Andersonburg's willing to volunteer for such a job. So the mayor says to

the militia captain, he says, if them infected find their way in here. You got to get him out some other way been killing him, you hear? I ain't aiming to have to pick a poor lad to take the bodies out and take himself out the same way, no, sir. 24th of April, 1829. The mayor led in a visitor today. Some o'er at the town's hall threw up a good fit over that, but the man had something to say, so in he comes. He meets with the mayor, and from what I heard from Phil Gables, he told the mayor the infected have thrown in their numbers and overrun the nearest town over west. The place, Lesterberg, was in a similar spot to us, rooting out the infected, burning their homes. Barricades had gone up. The militia had been mobilized. All the same. The infected, hungry for flesh,

swept in out of the woods one night and overran the barricades and the watchtowers and killed every last person in the town. except for this feller. Charles Gates, or something or other, he was the last man alive, and he ran all the way here to tell us that the hoard is heading up this way, not two days out. So now the town's got to figure out what's to be done. Some people think that the fellers lying to get himself a bite to eat. Others think that we should leave for Philadelphia while the leaving's good. Others think we can take the horde.

Lesterberg was half the size of Andersonburg. After all, says they, we have more men, more muskets, we could beat them, but it's all up to the mayor now. 25th of April, 1829. The mayor elected to stand and fight, but said that anyone who sought to flee was welcome to do so, of course. Got himself a nice round of applause, and then the men, myself among them, set about collecting arms and bullets and building up the barricades in the streets and setting up wood towers for the lookouts. If these infected aimed to have a fight, a fight they shall have. According to Charles, we should expect the horde to come up from the southwest near the pike, sometime in the next

12 hours or so, said there were uncountable hundreds of them, rotting away and thirsty for blood and crawling like beasts. We've got ourselves a good 240 men and muskets, and rounds enough for maybe 180 of them. Add to that number 30 good sharpshoen rifles for the marksmen in the towers, and even two twelve-pounders, overlooking the pike from two angles. And we've got ourselves a fine force to defend the town with, but I can see it in everyone's eyes, a mist of fear. Tonight, I'll spend the evening with Maria, and we'll do what the two of us can to take our mind off things.

By the door is my musket, of course, and my satchel, all the ammunition I could find. Should I hear the church bells go off at any point, I'll have no choice but to grab the gun, kiss Maria one last time, perhaps, and rush out to the southwest barricades to do some fighting. If the church bells ring a second time, though, everyone knows what that means. The infected have broken on through. Then it's time to hit the road to Philadelphia. So I tells Maria to keep our valuables packed.

26th of April, 1829. Today I took a good stroll out to the edge of town. We got ourselves a good palisade, some of the boys at the northwestern edge. even dug themselves a trench, and the whole of the militia, even Captain Gaines, have elected old Booker Downs to lead the defense, seeing as he fought with the mountaineers in the Indian wars and got himself some experience. So he rounds up some horses and dispatches a rider to Philadelphia to call up some help, and then two more riders with orders to scout the outskirts of town, one to the west to spot

the horde, and the other elsewhere to ensure they ain't coming up from nowhere else. and report back what they find no later than mid-afternoon. So off they all go, and the rest of the lads get back to the job of fixing up defenses. By now, we've scrounged up a good 12 more muskets and 40 or so pistols, and every blade we can find. The butcher was kind enough to lend us some cutlery, and in the town armory, Briggs and I bagged up a few scores of rusty bayonets and distributed them evenly along the front. We've got ourselves an army now, boys. I only hope it lasts the night.

Still no word from the scouts. Downs is getting nervous, so he goes and he sends another two riders and says, You lads go no more than a mile out, you hear? Then come on back to me. So off they go. One of the new scouts came a galvan on back in, and he's huffing and puffing and says to Down, they ain't coming up from the west, sir. Spotted a good lot of them in the northwest too and the north.

and they got themselves horses, a whole mess of them. And Down says, what do he mean horses? Like they've eaten them? And the scout says, no, sir, they're riding them like cavalry, and dead-looking things, rotten skin, with the same eyes as those infected folk. And they're making speed, sir. They're making damn good speed. And no sooner does he say that than the church bell rings.

And I look up, and all the men look up, and we see young Johnny Billings up there. And he's waving his arms and shouting something fierce and pointing off to the west. So we look to the west. And there they are, all of a sudden, a whole mess of them infected coming up the tree line and running up the hill towards the barricades. So we all run up to the wall and take aim. And Dow says to fire the 12-pounders, so they fire.

Boom, boom, and a good few of those infected goes aflying. But then more coming, and more and more. So then the marksmen open fire from the towers, and they're picking the bastards off as best they can. But the horses get closer and closer. Soon, they're in musket range. So me and the boys fire a volley. And when we reload, the boys behind us fire, and then the boys behind them. We fire three lines deep at the choke points, and pretty soon we got infected piling up right quick, not 50 yards off.

Dead and more dead and more. But the rest of them keep right on climbing over the pile of the dead ones, and keep right on coming, and we keep right on shooting. But then the infected did something I ain't seen yet. Far as I could tell beforehand, the fever keeps you from thinking straight, and then you're just not thinking at all. You're just a mindless thing and rotten skin that eats and kills. But today, after a good ten or twelve minutes of fighting, the horde got up and the whole lot

of them actually fell back. Now that says to me a number of things. Things discussed openly as the men set about reloading and fetching water in the interim. That means these things are thinking. They know they couldn't break our lines and so they retreated back towards the trees. They ain't done. We can still see their damned red eyes glowing through the shroud of trees, but they fell back. Maybe they scared.

The infected haven't tried another all out of salt yet. Commander Dawn's thinks they're waiting for nightfall so they can slip in unseen. So he had a handful of boys from each regiment head out into the killing fields and throw up lamps while some others stood guard. When sunlight starts to fall, we'll have our boys run out with torches and light those lamps. And the hope is we can keep the fields lit for shooting throughout the night. We got closer lamps too, but can be lit from behind the barricade without having to send Menow all exposed.

Sun's coming on down now. We can still see them damn infected in the trees, and we hear rustling and footsteps, and Commander Down says he's likely to bring up reinforcements for another push. Billy's got a fine ear, and he says he can hear him talking out there, Brunton and stuff, probably planning their next move. Meanwhile, the boys on this side of the Palisades have been reinforcing the barriers. Still no word from the other three scouts, but we ain't holding our breath on their return. And 8 o'clock, we heard some shooting at the Northwest barrier, so Commander Downs sends me

and Butler and Peyton out to see if they need help. So we get there, and the boys said that things had tried crawling through the tall grass for cover, and were only about a hundred-some odd feet from the palisades when the boy spotted him and started shooting. So we goes back to Downs and tells him, and he calls up a council of war with the regiment heads, and says, given that in the retreat from earlier, it's clear the infected are smarter than we thought. made a point to say that no weapons could fall into their hands, not under any circumstances, no, sir.

Now we all's waiting on that big night push. Sure enough as hell, those infected bastards made a second big charge against the barricades at the same time, some time before midnight. Damn near caught us with our pants around the ankles, too. We hear the rifle cracks from the marksman's tower, and then the twelve-pounders fire off, and then a flurry of muskets fire from the northwest. Then they hit us twice as hard as they did before, and we're firing volley after folly into them, stacked up three lines deep to keep the musket balls flying, and they're hitting

the dirt as bits and pieces of them are flying, but still they keep on coming. Then they start hitting back. Even though they're still a good fifty yards to the palisades, they bring up rocks and start flinging them towards us, fistfuls of gravel flying through the musket smoke, and they pepper in the boys and knocking teeth loose. Then start to yelp when they get hit, and them 12-pounders are firing away too. Boom, boom, every couple of minutes, and that tears big groups of them down. But they keep on coming till they was right up at the palisades, and Commander Downs told

the front to start up with their bayonets and blades and tomahawks. I remember how close the bastards came to taking a big old bite right out of my neck. Luckily old Bruce Nick the son bitch with a bayonet to the head and he keeled over. Not long after that, the infected retreated again. But now we got a fresh problem. We got casualties. Men are bit. Men made contact with the plague, and so we's got to do what we all knew we'd had to.

Get rid of the infected. Commander Downs rides up, and he takes a good long look at this one poor lad, armed bleeding from a bite, and he tells him to head out and relight the torches. The boy looked all forlorn, and as soon as he lights the touch. torches, Downs has one of the men fire at the poor lad. He dropped like a stone, dead for he hit the ground. That one hurt us all, I think. But he wasn't done, neither. Some of the other men got touched by the fever, too, and so me and the rest of the boys backs up and level some rifles at him, and we ask Commander Downs, what do we do with him, sir? And he says, you know what we do. We send

him away. So at gunpoint, we show the men to the gate, and they're bare. begging and they're pleading, but we got no choice. So out they go, and we say we'll fire at him unless they get as far away from town as they can. We all knew what was coming, and sure enough, as they got near the woods, infected ran out, and dragged him in. We all watched till the screaming stopped, and the bushes quit shaking. Few of the men here got sick. Others cried. I just wrote it all down. God above, I hope Maria is as far from this hell as possible. 27th of April, 1829. We slept in shifts last night, and luckily there weren't many other attempts by the infected

to rush the barricades, but we're tired, the lot of us. Damn hell, we're tired. I'd be amazed if any man got a lick of real rest. We was silent, but we stayed up, and we listened good to the sounds of infected howling out there in the woods. There were thousands of them had sounded like, filling up the whole night. sky with the din of their big collective war scream lasted for an hour, maybe more. One of the boys near me was praying all night long, begging for the good Lord to come down

and save us. I asked him to put in a good word for me too. This morning, some of the wives pitched in with medical aid and a big, hearty breakfast, so we ate well, and commanded Downs allowed us to spend time with our families. Marie and I took a nice stroll, but I don't have much to say. By midday, I was back at the palisades with the other men, and by sundown, we started to hear the infected getting riled up again, hearing that awful howlund. Downs and his aides were riding back and forth, making sure the walls were good and solid.

The cannons reloaded and manned, and the bell tower watch was keeping his eye out. And this time, we got some of the younger men to run ammo up and down where it's needed. As shooting started, we'll update if possible. God above, God help us, the infected hit us on all sides all at once. Them cannons were firing like Matt, and commanded Downs was telling him, Aim for the trees, aim for the trees. So they did. And after a few rounds, they managed to dam off entire entry points and slow down the hoard.

But it weren't more than a stopgap. Them infected were running through the musket smoke, howling and screaming for food. Some of them were even galloping towards the walls on all fours. And you could see the red of their eyes, like pooling blood. Jim Isley was one of them, and I had to be the poor bastard to put him down for good. I'm sorry, Jim. Truly, I am. But they kept right on coming.

The boys were firing wildly and chopping and stabbing and screaming, and them infected was doing the same and trying to mount the palisades. And then, just when there weren't a lick more we could take, we heard some of the men screaming from down south of us. We wasn't aware we were even threatened there, but sure enough, them infected bastards had broken on through some of the pickets and were trying to break in through the windows of the houses. So Commander Down sent me and five other gents to go and put a stop to that. We burst in through the houses and stabbed him through the windows and traded shots for rocks over barrels.

I got all good and cut up from the exploding glass windows, but I ain't bit, not yet. So we put a stop to them coming in that way. But when I got back, I explained to Downs real good that they were going to try that again, sooner or later, and we needed a good force of men to guard up there. Turns out, he'd gotten similar reports from other parts of town, though, and so we'd had to stretch our lines real thin to cover it all up. But we did what we had to do, and by God, we held the line around the town by the skin of our teeth.

Some of the men, God above, grown men, they were just crying. They're so damn tired and scared. We all are. But we held the line. By God, we did. Ain't a man here who didn't do his duty. The 28th or 29th of April, 1829. Today, the women and children helped us all build a new defensive line towards the center of town.

Down says that if we get hit again, like we did last night, we'd have these new palisades and trenches to fall back on. I worked with Maria today digging away. She tended to my wounds too, and we just enjoyed each other's company as we worked. I even got some shut-eye, some real good shut-eye, if not for an hour or two. Then it was sundown again. The boys and I ate up a stew the women cooked, and then we were off to the palisades. Them wooden posts were beaten and worn too. We knew we couldn't stay for long, and as soon as the howling started from the trees,

Commander Downs ordered the twelve-pounders be stripped and rushed to the inner line of defense, so they'd be ready if it gets bad, or when it gets bad, I suppose I'll say. I made sure to kiss Maria real good tonight, and made her promise to make a good run for it if those church bells rang twice, which now meant the inner line had been breached. She cried and nodded. I wanted to tell her that if she had to run, I'd meet her at Joseph's house in Philadelphia. But all as I could bring myself to say was, You run straight for Joseph's, you hear?

Don't you stop? Because Lord, and I'm tearing up just writing this, I don't know if I'll last the night. Hell, I don't know if anyone here will last the night. We are at the inner line of defense now. We ain't been hit that hard since the battle started. Got above, it was a bloody mess. The rush started off with some infected leaping out of the woods and tackling the lamps into the ground.

The glass broke and all the dry. Why weeds go up in flame. Soon the fire smoke and the musket smoke made it so we couldn't see a damn thing out there. All we could hear was the howl'n. Must have been a thousand of the bastards tonight, maybe more. So we'd been shooting for a good while and hacking and throwing rocks, and then we heard the commotion up at the other wall. And boy, we knew it weren't no small thing.

There were men screaming, and the shooting altogether stopped up there. We knew they were done for. Commander Downs rides up to us and he says, The Northwest Palisade is breached. Fall back to the inner line. Fall back. And so me and the boys pick up our guns and beat a fighting retreat down the boulevard towards the inner walls. Then them infected start pouring over the palisades and we knew there weren't no throwing them back.

Not this time. So we get back to the inner palisades and we start right up again, shooting and firing those 12-pounders. Boy, and them infected are coming at us from every side now. howling the whole way, burning up and getting shot all up, but still running at us. Now we've got kids in the camp, and I can hear the little lads and lasses putting up a good cry, even over the din of the fight, and I thinks, how's it we ain't sent them little ones off to Philadelphia? How are they still here? Maybe it's because Downs thinks they're being here will inspire us, you know, to fight even harder. Anyways, after a good more hour to a shooting and

stabbing, the whore dwindles a bit. And that's when Briggs sees it. One of them infected mounted up on a dead horse, looking down on the town from atop the wooded hill north of town. We only see his silhouette and those red eyes peering at us through the smoke and flame, but he's there, ride his rain. Briggs points and we all look, and we got to catch our breath in our throats. Them infected got themselves a general. From the looks of it, he's just sitting up there, while Watching his plague runners set the town ablaze. Not too long after that, some sunlight comes up over the church tower, and then the horde falls back. We don't know how far.

We don't know if they ran back to the trees, or if they're still inside the town, staying in our houses till dark. Down says we can't spare nobody to go and takes a look, so here we stay, here at the inner palisade by the edge of the town, and we waits for nightfall, and that infected up on that horse. 29th of April, 1829. So I got some sleep this afternoon. Not a whole hell of a lot, but a better amount than none.

First thing I did when I woke was help count ammo. We's almost clean out, maybe ten rounds of man. And now we've only got 70 men or so. And them twelve-pounders is almost out too. They only has maybe twelve balls to shoot left between the two of them. And none of the riders has gotten back neither. So we ain't got no recruitment's coming. So Briggs and I, and Peyton, and short, we goes up to Commander Downs and we say,

Sir, we're almost out of men and ammo. We got little ones here, sir. We got our wives. And the town's all up in flames, sir. There ain't nothing left for us here, not for one of us. We should make a run for Philadelphia while we still got's daylight, but he says back, I ain't never left the enemy in command of the field. We stay and we fight.

And he rides off. Now I ain't no mutineer, Lord above knows I'd done my duty, but I ain't aiming to die for the principle of it. Not when I got to my Maria here, and no town left to defend. So I talks to some of the men and women and lay it out for him, and I says, look here boys, we ain't last in another night, and if we do, what'll come of us in the next one? We gots to get out while we can. The road to Philadelphia is still open, and we still gotts ourselves enough daylight.

to get out of the woods and to the open road before nightfall. And the majority of them nod, and we take a vote. The motion to leave is the clear winner. So we get our things, and we tell Commander Downs, we's leaving, sir. There ain't nothing here left for us, and we ain't aiming to die for a pile of rubble. And he gets red in the face, and he says back, I'll have the lot of you hanged for treason. And he calls up his boys, about half the men left with their muskets, and he says,

you law arrest these mutineers, you hear? And so they advance, and we level our muskets to repel them back. But before any shots are fired, one of the women in the church points down the road heading off to the southeast, and she says, look, one of the scouts is riding in. So we all turn back and look. And sure enough, old Dave Benjamin's pulling up into town, and he looks like hell itself. He says, water, water, and we give him a canteen. And then he says, I was coming up with a column of state militia from the Midland, all that helps I could muster up, but them infecteds, they're everywhere, all over the road, out in force.

I swear they was lying in wait for the lot of us, like an ambush, and they leapt down on the main road and just tore into the poor lads. They didn't have a chance. I'm the only man who made it back. I need to tell y'all that the road to Philadelphia is blocked. So now the whole town's in a panic. were surrounded by the plague and there ain't no way out. And not a minute ago, while I was riding this here entry, someone points up the hill north of town and they says, there's the horseman.

And we all look, and there he is, that plague rider, eyeing the town with that wicked red stare of his, and that of his horse. And we see as he's got a whole wretched host of other infected riders. And then they started moving right on down the mountain toward us. And then the howling started. And just now, the church bells start to ring, and I know it in my bones. I ain't surviving this night. They're coming at us from all sides now, and I'm holding my Maria tight, and she's crying, too. And all as we can hear is the wailing of the little ones from the church, and the shouts of the boys as they run up the palisades with their guns and the wheeling forward of the cannon.

So I gave Maria a kiss, and I'm leaving this here diary in her possession. I love you, darling, I love you, and I hope you know that. The 29th of April, 1829. Paul has gone off to the palisades. He's scared. I am too. We all are. But we've got to be strong for the children here in the back of the church.

The other women and I have tended to the lot of them since the men fell back to the inner line of defense, which I helped to build. and at least half of them have the fever. Of that, I'm now sure. But it no longer matters, does it? They won't live to see themselves be taken by it. And perhaps that's a merciful thing. The shooting has started. The boys are throwing in everything they've got.

God bless the lot of them. But I can tell it's not enough. We've but now we're left. Maybe less before the infected make it to the church. The children here have cried themselves empty, and now they're huddling around myself and the other women and clutching our dresses and burying their faces in our laps. I'm as afraid as any of them, but I can't let them see that. I can't. The church bells are ringing again, and the men just outside.

The 30 or so of them left. I have no idea if Paul is among them. Sound exhausted and panicked. The cannons have long since stopped firing, likely having expended their ammunition. Only periodically do I hear a musket blast. Paul was explaining earlier that they'd nearly run out of bullets last night. I can't imagine they've found me anymore. I hear galloping now.

Coming up from the west. It's not the state militia. It's that plague rider. I can hear him. I know it's him. I know it's him. It. He commands these beasts.

He grunts and shouts, and they listen. They're only a few yards from the church doors. We've hidden the children in the very furthest corner and covered them up with whatever we can find. We told them to stay quiet at all costs. But some of them are infants. They'll cry for their mothers. And when they do, the whole lot of them will be found.

It's been several minutes since I heard Musket Fire. and the last of the shouts from our boys have long since ceased. All I can hear now is the howling, and some of the women in here saying how we should use the pews to barricate the door. But it's hopeless. We all know it's hopeless. All we can do now is be strong for the children. But how can I?

My home is burnt. My paul. My paul is gone. All our boys are gone. How can I be strong when my strength is gone? The infected begun hammering away at the church doors and windows. We are surrounded in here. God, Lord, give me strength, please.

Father, give me strength just for a little while longer. Just for a little... This diary was found buried in the rubble of an old church in the center of Andersonburg, cradled by a long, rotted corpse that appeared to had suffered severe blunt trauma wounds about the length of the spine around the skull. There are multiple other skeletons strewn about the floor of the place, all but one of which appeared to have suffered similarly. The other one, an infant corpse, and one well hidden in the corner, appears to never have suffered

a wound at all. It looks instead to have perished of starvation, likely some days after the events described here. Outside the church, of course, is the town itself. It is currently being picked clean by my colleagues and other members of the university, all for research purposes, of course. Although I fear black market scavengers will descend like vultures upon the place once word of its existence spreads.

And it is in a similar state of ruin, mostly from what appears to be fire damage. As of this document, I am the only person who knows of the existence of this diary. Anyway, hell, I'll update this late. At the moment, I'm being called over to help with one of the interns, who has apparently collapsed and begun to convulse. They're probably just dehydrated.