Just south of Fort Myers lies one of America's most curious ghost towns, containing the remains of a commune called the Koreshan Unity. Founded in 1894 and led by a self-proclaimed messiah who espoused everything from celibacy and reincarnation to a strange version of Hollow Earth theory, this peculiar idyll flourished in the early 1900s, but went swiftly downhill after its "immortal" founder died.

Click or scroll through for a wander around the settlement's remnants and a delve into its fantastically bizarre past...

Our tour begins at the bamboo landing, a dinky dock on the meandering Estero River that served as the debarkation point for arriving Koreshans, as members of the sect were called.

It was also the main landing for goods back when the waterway was the only means of access to the remote community.

The grove was planted with bamboo from the winter estates of Thomas Edison and Henry Ford, who were regular visitors to the commune and the most famous fans of its charismatic founder, Dr. Cyrus Teed.

Born in 1839 in upstate New York, Teed trained as an unconventional, eclectic physician and reportedly had a penchant for performing madcap alchemy experiments, frequently using dangerous levels of electricity, Frankenstein-style.

During one particularly hazardous experiment in 1869, Teed is said to have blacked out and had a vision of a divine spirit who told him he was the messiah. Upon awakening, he vowed to save humanity, adopting the name Koresh, the Hebrew version of Cyrus.

Teed then cobbled together a hotchpotch of pseudoscientific theories, progressive ideas and concepts taken from the world's major belief systems, and thus a new religion, Koreshanity, was born.

Teed started spreading the word and formed his Koreshan Unity communal utopia in New York in the 1870s, later moving to Chicago, where his controversial beliefs caused a stir and even led to some death threats.

Teed ended up quitting the unwelcoming Windy City in 1894 and, together with his band of around 200 devoted followers, headed to the tiny Florida town of Estero, arriving by the alligator-infested river of the same name. The commune's leader is shown here strolling on its banks.

Teed was taking his life into his hands walking that close to the water's edge. According to a note written on the back of this photo, it shows Koreshan Julius Koester posing with an alligator shot by a fellow 'brother'. 

"It came up under the bank where I was standing, in a white dress on 'the point' in the park, and I went after Brother Charlie to dispatch it," the owner of the photo wrote.

Alligators would have been a constant threat to the Koreshans, yet despite that – or perhaps because of it – they featured them in their entertainment, as we can see from this image. It shows the setting for a Koreshan Unity play that they staged at the compound in 1908.

Just up from the landing jetty, these steps mark the formal entrance to the settlement. Teed had ridiculously ambitious plans for his 'New Jerusalem', which he envisioned would grow to become a sprawling metropolis of 10 million people, featuring boulevards 400 feet (122m) wide.

The industrious community certainly didn't waste any time when it came to building.

Within a decade, the town had over 60 buildings and a population of around 250. A hub of cultural activity, the community strongly fostered creativity and was all about the cultivation of the fine arts, music, and theatre, putting on regular shows during which the bamboo landing and steps served as venues.

The Koreshan orchestra is shown here performing on the steps sometime around 1910.

The first structure you encounter after entering the settlement is the founder's house, which is one of 11 surviving Koreshan Unity buildings and fittingly the first built by the community.

Completed in 1896, the spacious dwelling served as Teed's residence, but was actually split into two apartments and also contained a school room. 

The immaculately restored living room has plain Shaker-style wall panelling and is peppered with elegant late Victorian furnishings. Interestingly, a picture and bust of Napoleon Bonaparte adorn the space.

Teed is said to have been an admirer of the French military leader, being of similarly modest stature, and also went by the title of emperor. Looking at old photos, though, the room was much busier way back when.

Emperor Teed poses here in 1903 in the sumptuously decorated room with his 'empress', Victoria Gratia, who resided in the upper apartment.

The eccentric religious leader had chosen Gratia to act as the Moon to his Sun. However, the faith had three levels of membership and the inner core practised strict celibacy, which they believed was the key to immortality.

The Damkohler cottage is the next building you come to in the settlement.

The simple cabin actually pre-dates the founder's house, built in 1882 by early settler Gustav Damkohler, who set up home for a time in what was then inhospitable 'gator and mosquito-riddled swampland.

The cottage was snapped up by the Koreshans when they purchased the 160 acres (65ha) from Damkohler that would serve as the basis for their commune. It was later converted into a medical cottage.

Looking through the window, the interior is as spartan as they come, with very little in the way of furniture and a total absence of decoration.

Next up is the community's general store. Unlike the other surviving buildings, it has yet to be restored to its former glory and campaigners have been fundraising for the project.

Located right on the Estero River, the building is actually the second incarnation of the store. Built in 1920, it eventually replaced the original store when it burned down in 1938.

The store was arranged over three storeys. The ground floor was set aside for storing merchandise to be shipped or sold.

The first level was the actual store, which stocked a variety of wares, including bread baked in the commune's bakery and honey harvested from its hives, while the upper floor was a men's dormitory.

Here's what the interior of the store looked like at the turn of the 20th century. For a good while, it was the only store between Fort Myers and Naples, and drew customers from a wide area, who clearly couldn't get enough of the Koreshan Unity's wholesome baked goods and other products.

The general store was also used as a restaurant and housed the settlement's post office.

The replacement store is pictured here in 1940. Note the Art Deco gable. By this time, the post office was located in an itty-bitty hut to the side of the building, which, in addition to the Koreshan Unity store, contained the Riverview Inn restaurant and the main office for the settlement.

The next building on our tour is the Art Hall.

This capacious pavilion was completed in 1904. Graced with a large stage and more than enough seating to accommodate the 250 or so residents, the Art Hall was used by the culture-loving Koreshans for concerts, plays, and religious services, taking over from the Bamboo Landing as the commune's premier venue.

It served as an art gallery showcasing the community's paintings, sculptures and so on.

Teed's beliefs were absurd for the most part but he did advocate equality for the sexes. This extended to support for female suffrage, and the Koreshans were very active in the votes for women movement.

In 1900, for instance, the commune staged an activist play in the Art Hall called Women, Women, Women, Suffragettes, Yes to promote the cause, and even had its own political party, though the organisation reportedly failed to win an election.

Above all, it's the most out-there tenets of the faith that Teed and his followers are best-remembered for, notably their belief in a Hollow Earth (though the "living forever by staying virtuous" thing is a close contender).

As illustrated by this globe on display in the Art Hall, the Koreshans thought the Earth was inside out and contained the entire universe, with the sun at its centre.

Also on display in the Art Hall is a map of the paradise-like New Jerusalem the Koreshans were hoping to establish, with its myriad boulevards arranged in a sacred geometry pattern based around the number seven.

Given the sect's promotion of gender equality, Koreshanity proved especially popular with women, who made up much of its membership.

The hierarchy of the religion was female-dominated to boot, which brings us to the next building in the settlement, the cosmically named Planetary Court.

The most impressive of the surviving structures, the mansion was built in 1904 to house the Planetary Chamber or Sisters. Made up of seven women each corresponding to the known planets at the time, the council governed the community and managed its day-to-day affairs.

The seven women took care of most of the commune's business but the trickier decisions were passed on to the emperor and his empress, who had the final say in all matters Koreshan-related.

Still, the council members had a pretty exulted existence, living comfortably on top of enjoying the sort of independence most women at the time could only have dreamed of.

Clearly no expense was spared on the building, which was constructed when the community was positively thriving.

A suitably grand entryway for the Koreshan Unity's leading ladies, the hallway of the home is decked out in fine wooden panelling and solid timber furnishings, decorated with a portrait of Teed among other interesting pieces.

To the side of the entryway is this prim and proper parlour and study, where the seven women would likely have convened to discuss the community's pressing and not-so-pressing matters, relax with a book, listen to music – note the original record player – or pen a letter on the writing bureau, which, like the other pieces of furniture, was shipped in from Chicago.

Unlike many of the other women in the community, especially in the early days, the Planetary Sisters each had a bedroom of their own, a testament to their exalted status.

While they aren't overly luxurious, all of the rooms are spacious, and the furnishings are top quality. Plus, the women's individual needs appear to have been well catered to, including any disabilities if the wheelchair is anything to go by.

This bedroom is even more capacious and, like the previous one we visited, is decently decorated, with more than enough furniture to guarantee a superior degree of comfort, at least by early 20th-century standards.

With so much on offer for women, it's no wonder the Koreshans were largely female.

Moving on, the community's bakery is the next building we encounter. The pristine white clapboard edifice was capable of producing up to 600 loaves a day, and anything that wasn't consumed by the Koreshans was sold in the general store to the wider public.

The “risin' bread” was noted for its tastiness and highly rated throughout the local area.

As you can see, the bakery has plenty of space to rustle up hundreds of loaves, which can't have been a pleasant chore in the sweltering Florida summers.

The structure is cleverly designed to minimise heat build-up, with the white paint chosen to reflect the sun's rays and plenty of windows and doors for cooling cross-ventilation inside.

Three of the commune's bakers are pictured in the bakery sometime around 1900, toiling away to supply the settlement and its environs with high-quality bread.

With the Koreshans such dedicated advocates of gender equality, male and female workers were paid identical wages (in the form of credits they could exchange for goods and services), which was virtually unheard of at the time.

As we've mentioned, there were over 60 buildings in the curious town during its heyday. Among the structures that didn't survive the years are the original sawmill and the publishing house, which printed the community's newspaper, The Flaming Sword.

There were also adult educational facilities but the most imposing lost building was the vast dining room and dormitory, pictured here. Built in 1896, it was later torn down in 1949. This view shows the east end of the dining hall, with the kitchen on the back of the building.

The community would congregate in the cavernous dining room every mealtime. The fact that cooking and housework were taken care of was another major draw for many of the mostly female members.

Instead of being bogged down in drudgery like so many women at the time, they were able to escape the traditional role and partake instead in a plethora of educational and cultural activities.

Just along from the bakery is what's known as the Vesta Newcomb cottage.

This cute one-storey abode was home to the eponymous Vesta Newcomb, who came to the commune at the age of 16 with her mother Liliane and was among the last of the Koreshans. Like the bakery, the dwelling has been perfectly preserved.

A veritable time capsule, the interior is packed with mid-century modern furniture and gadgets, including a vintage TV set and radio.

Newcomb died in 1974, so the property looks just as it did when she was living there, right down to the finer details, which conservators have carefully maintained.

Newcomb's bedroom has also retained its vintage character. There's a homely handmade quilt on the bed and several charming knick-knacks on display, including an ornate birdcage.

As is the case with the other buildings in the settlement, the cottage has multiple-aspect windows to promote airflow and cool the interior.

The Conrad Schlender cottage is located a stone's throw away. Schlender worked as a machinist and lived in the property for 50 years. Like Newcomb, he was one of the last holdouts.

Dating from around 1903, the cottage is an example of the more basic shotgun homes that were once prevalent in the commune.

Leaving the Conrad Schlender cottage behind, we arrive at the large machine shop, where he almost certainly would have worked. Completed in 1904, the facility was a miniature factory, producing a variety of products.

It was powered by a steam engine, which also ran the settlement's long-demolished laundry, located next door.

Looking around the interior, much of the equipment remains in place, albeit covered in more than its fair share of rust. It's not all that difficult to imagine Schlender and his fellow Koreshan machinists beavering away in here for the good of the community, rustling up all manner of useful contraptions.

The final structures on our tour are the small machine shop and generator building. The former was used to manufacture smaller, more detailed products, while the latter produced electricity for the community.

The facility was so productive, it even serviced the wider area for several decades, turning into quite the money-spinner for the sect, no doubt.

In 1906, Teed reportedly got involved in a fight between Koreshans and locals, who had become increasingly hostile to the sect. He died two years later, allegedly from injuries sustained in the altercation. However, his followers refused to accept their supposedly immortal leader had passed. They kept a constant vigil over his body, but were eventually forced by the county health officer to inter the corpse.

Teed's tomb was destroyed by a hurricane in 1921 and his coffin washed out to sea. The aftermath of the storm is shown here.

Unsurprisingly, Teed's death dealt a huge blow to the community. The community went downhill, and in 1961, the last president of the Koreshan Unity, Hedwig Michel, along with the three remaining members, deeded the settlement to the State of Florida. It became the Koreshan Unity State Park, which is still open to visitors today with 11 structures saved for posterity. 

Michel is shown here at the park's dedication ceremony. Fortunately, as part of the deal, the holdouts were permitted to stay in their homes until their dying day.

And so our tour ends at the white Victorian bridge that leads into the sunken garden where Ms Michel is buried.

Brimming with exotic plants from around the world that the green-fingered Koreshans imported and expertly nurtured, the tranquil spot, together with the ghost town's buildings and grounds, are quite the achievements for a group which, despite its more outlandish beliefs, had quite a lot going for it when all was said and done.

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