They spoke often of the voices that filled the night—and rightly so. But just as surely as the town whispered, it watched. A walk through Columbia at midnight promised more than just sounds; it invited you to see what the darkness revealed. A quiet tour beneath the gaslight glow, taken by those curious enough to discover what sights stirred while the town slept.

The night watchmen were the first to come into view, followed by the faint flicker of railroad men’s lanterns glowing in the distance, each one cutting through the moonlit dark. In Mt. Bethel Cemetery, the bright moonlight reflected off the white headstones, casting a quiet glow over the resting place of the dead. Tall trees stood like silent sentinels, their shadows stretching long and strange across the ground in haunting patterns.

The weathered tombstones leaned at odd angles, as if yearning to return to the earth alongside those they commemorated. The paths choked with weeds, and every corner of the cemetery spoke of quiet decay and long neglect. A moment of unease rippled through the night when an eerie sound pierced the silence, sending a chill down the spine. But the tension melted into uneasy laughter when the culprit emerged—a solitary tomcat slinking through the shadows.

A narrow alley branched off from Bethel Street, stretching down to the Lancaster Turnpike, its path skirting the edge of the graveyard, known as a frequent camping ground for a gang of tramps. A swift glance into the shadows revealed nothing—no voices, no movement. The place was silent, empty, as if abandoned or watching.

A maze of narrow alleys and crooked lanes cut through Tow Hill—many of them foul-smelling and close, heavy with the scent of neglect. The air was far from quiet. Harsh voices echoed in the darkness, laced with curses sharp enough to confirm that not all of Columbia was asleep. The oaths were ugly, bitter things—damning, as if each one sent another soul to perdition.

As they turned a corner into one dim alley, their footsteps struck something soft. A body lay sprawled across the path, a red streak slashed across the upturned face—it looked like blood. It was blood. Horror surged at the thought of a murder, but gathering their nerve, they reached down and checked for a pulse. It was strong.

Leaning closer, a sharp wave of whiskey confirmed the truth. The man was not dead, only dead drunk. The wound was nothing more than a shallow gash—the result of a fistfight and a well-placed knuckle. After some vigorous shaking, the drunken figure stirred. Told to go home, he responded with a stream of fresh profanity. As they turned to leave, his last words followed them down the alley—an invitation to go somewhere where coats weren’t needed to keep warm.

During their time on the Hill, they had attracted a pack of hungry, mangy dogs. The animals snarled and barked, trailing their heels until they finally departed the area. For the long-suffering residents, a dose of strychnine might have seemed a merciful end to the torment of these miserable curs.

Manor Street, perched on high ground, stretched out in a long, straight line—its houses sharply silhouetted against the early sky, offering a scene of quiet peace. Somewhere in the distance, the mournful strains of an accordion drifted through the air, but their purpose wasn’t music—it was to find the locals, so the unseen musician was left undisturbed.

From there, the path led down over the hills and the steep embankment beside the Pennsylvania Railroad until the glowing heart of the Susquehanna Rolling Mill came into view. In the darkness, its fires blazed brightly, casting an otherworldly light. Shadows danced across the vast space, making everything seem larger than life. Inside, the sons of Vulcan moved with purpose, the brawny workers rushing back and forth like servants of the forge god, answering the call of industry with every glowing bar of iron.

To anyone who believed the men of the rolling mill to be overpaid, a mere ten minutes in front of a searing puddle furnace would surely change that opinion. The labor was brutal, the heat relentless, and the effort, undeniable.

Next, they made their way to the Pennsylvania Railroad roundhouse, where the sharp ring of hammers echoed through the night air—a clear sign that work never ceased. The great machinery of the railroad moved steadily, its operations as relentless by night as by day. In the yards, shifting engines crept along the tracks, their glowing headlights like enormous eyes scanning the darkness for hidden dangers.

Above, the sky had turned brooding and heavy. Clouds gathered, and a distant rumble—heaven’s artillery—sounded a warning. A storm was coming, and it was time to turn toward home.

They paused for a last glance into the bridge that spanned the river—it loomed like a vast tunnel, its depths swallowed by shadow. A single distant light pierced the darkness, only to make the surrounding gloom feel deeper. They cast one last look at the churning, dark waters of the brooding Susquehanna, and at the faint, flickering lights of Wrightsville across the western shore. With that, the midnight tour of Columbia ended.