The Devil in the White City

The Devil in the White City Plot Summary

Introduction

In the waning years of the 19th century, Chicago became the stage for two remarkable and contrasting creations that would forever symbolize America's Gilded Age. While the gleaming neoclassical buildings of the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition rose from swampland to create a utopian "White City," just a few miles away, a charming doctor named H.H. Holmes was constructing his own architectural marvel - a hotel designed specifically for murder. This juxtaposition reveals the profound contradictions of an era when unprecedented progress and optimism existed alongside exploitation, violence, and moral corruption. Through this historical narrative, we explore how the same forces of modernity - urbanization, technological innovation, and professional credentials - enabled both magnificent achievement and horrific predation. We discover why young women traveling alone to experience the wonders of the fair became uniquely vulnerable in the new urban landscape. And we witness how Daniel Burnham's ambitious vision for the White City would ultimately transform American urban planning, even as Holmes exploited the anonymity of city life to become one of America's first serial killers. This account will captivate anyone interested in American history, architecture, true crime, or understanding how grand public spectacles and hidden horrors can emerge from the same social conditions.

Chapter 1: Ambitious Visions: Chicago's Bid for Greatness (1890-1891)

In 1890, Chicago stood at a pivotal moment in its history. Having rebuilt itself from the devastating Great Fire of 1871, the city had transformed into America's second-largest metropolis - a gritty, industrial powerhouse often dismissed by East Coast elites as culturally backward and provincial. When Congress authorized a fair to commemorate the 400th anniversary of Columbus's arrival in the New World, Chicago fought fiercely against New York, Washington D.C., and St. Louis for hosting rights. Against all expectations, Chicago won, but with a seemingly impossible challenge: create a world-class exposition in just three years, when previous world's fairs had required at least twice that time. The task fell primarily to Daniel Burnham, a self-made architect whose firm with partner John Root had pioneered the construction of early skyscrapers. Despite never attending college, Burnham had risen to prominence through determination and vision. He assembled an extraordinary team including landscape designer Frederick Law Olmsted (creator of New York's Central Park) and leading architects from across the country. Their ambition was not merely to build a fair but to create a vision of what American cities could become - a "White City" that would stand in stark contrast to the sooty, chaotic urban landscapes of the industrial age. The site chosen for this monumental undertaking was Jackson Park, described by contemporaries as "a sandy waste of unredeemed and desert land" along Lake Michigan. Olmsted envisioned transforming this unpromising terrain into a "prairie Venice" with an intricate system of lagoons and canals. The architectural vision that emerged was revolutionary for America - a cohesive classical design that rejected the chaotic Victorian styles of the era in favor of harmonious, white-clad buildings arranged around a central court. This decision sparked controversy among American architects, notably Louis Sullivan, who argued for more innovative, uniquely American designs rather than borrowing from European traditions. The obstacles facing the fair's creators seemed insurmountable. The timeline was impossibly short, the budget constantly threatened by economic downturns, and labor unrest loomed as unions demanded better conditions. Tragedy struck when John Root, Burnham's partner and the fair's supervising architect, died suddenly of pneumonia in January 1891. His death stunned Chicago and left Burnham to shoulder the immense burden alone. "I have worked, I have schemed and dreamed to make us the greatest architects in the world," Burnham lamented after Root's death, "and now he dies." Despite these challenges, Burnham pressed forward with characteristic determination, driven by his famous motto: "Make no little plans; they have no magic to stir men's blood." By late 1891, skeptics still doubted whether Chicago could possibly complete such an ambitious project in time. The newspapers regularly predicted failure. Yet beneath the muddy grounds of Jackson Park, foundations were being laid for what would become, however briefly, the most beautiful city in America - a dreamland of white palaces that would change how Americans thought about urban spaces forever.

Chapter 2: Building the Impossible: The White City Takes Shape

The period from late 1891 through early 1893 witnessed one of the most remarkable construction projects in American history. With opening day set for May 1, 1893, Daniel Burnham faced the monumental task of transforming architectural drawings into physical reality against seemingly impossible deadlines. From his simple wooden headquarters on the fairgrounds - a humble "shanty" that contrasted sharply with the grandeur rising around it - Burnham orchestrated thousands of workers, managed millions in budgets, and resolved countless crises. Working sixteen-hour days, he drove the project forward through sheer force of will, famously declaring, "There is no word in my vocabulary called impossible." The scale of construction defied imagination. The Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building alone covered nearly 31 acres - the largest building ever constructed at that time, large enough to house the U.S. Capitol, the Great Pyramid, Winchester Cathedral, Madison Square Garden, and St. Paul's Cathedral simultaneously, with room to spare. Workers laid foundations of immense timbers in crisscrossed layers, then raised tall posts of iron and steel to form each building's frame. Rather than using traditional materials like stone and brick, which would have taken too long to install, the architects decided to clad the buildings in "staff" - a mixture of plaster and jute that could be molded to resemble stone and applied quickly. Nature seemed determined to thwart the fair's progress. A series of violent storms in spring 1892 wreaked havoc on the partially completed structures. One storm destroyed sixty-five feet of the Illinois State Building; another collapsed eight hundred feet of the south wall of the Manufactures Building. On June 13, 1892, a particularly devastating storm struck the fairgrounds, causing the north end of the Manufactures Building to collapse, bringing down one hundred thousand feet of lumber. "The wind," observed the Chicago Tribune, "seems to have a grudge against the World's Fair grounds." Labor issues threatened the project from the start. When the first workers began digging drainage ditches in February 1891, they were driven off by union men who objected to the use of non-union labor. Strikes and labor unrest were constant threats. Burnham negotiated an eight-hour workday for fair workers but continued to push for accelerated construction. The human cost of this rapid construction was severe. By August 1892, at least seven workers had died in accidents at the fairgrounds, with dozens more suffering serious injuries. The fair was later assessed to be more dangerous than a coal mine. Yet Burnham drove his men relentlessly, posting a sign over his desk bearing a single word: "RUSH." A crucial aesthetic decision came in spring 1892 when the architects debated how to color the buildings' exteriors. During a meeting where color director William Pretyman was absent, someone suggested making everything white. Burnham seized on the idea and ordered the Mines Building painted a creamy white as a test. When Pretyman returned and objected, Burnham dismissed him and hired painter Francis Millet, who developed a method of applying paint through a hose with a special nozzle - essentially inventing spray paint. This decision would ultimately give the fair its iconic appearance and its nickname: the White City. Despite all obstacles, by late summer 1892, the impossible began to seem possible. The buildings were taking shape, their white facades gleaming in the sun. Frederick Law Olmsted's landscape was emerging, with the Wooded Island rising from the central lagoon. On October 21, 1892, the fair held its dedication ceremony, though the grounds wouldn't officially open to the public until May 1, 1893. For Burnham and his team, this represented both triumph and vindication. Despite death, storms, labor troubles, and constant committee interference, they had delivered on their promise. The White City stood ready, a testament to American ingenuity and determination that would inspire generations of urban planners and architects.

Chapter 3: Holmes' Shadow: A Predator Exploits Modern Anonymity

While Chicago's greatest minds were designing a utopian White City, a darker presence was establishing itself just a few miles away in the Englewood neighborhood. There, a charming, blue-eyed doctor named H.H. Holmes had constructed a building that locals called "The Castle" - a three-story structure containing his pharmacy, various businesses, and rooms for rent. What no one realized was that this building had been designed specifically as a killing factory, complete with soundproof rooms, gas lines that could be controlled from Holmes' bedroom, secret passages, and a basement equipped with dissection tables, acid vats, and a crematorium. Holmes, whose real name was Herman Webster Mudgett, had arrived in Chicago in 1886 after leaving a trail of fraud and suspicious deaths in his previous locations. A trained doctor who had worked his way through medical school by stealing cadavers, Holmes combined medical knowledge with extraordinary charm and an utter lack of conscience. He possessed what modern psychiatrists would recognize as psychopathic traits - superficial charm, manipulative behavior, and a complete absence of empathy. "He was the smoothest man I ever saw," said one associate. "He would smile and talk to them and set up the cigars and drinks and send them away seemingly his friends for life. I never saw him angry." The construction of Holmes' building revealed his methodical nature. He constantly fired workers to ensure no single person understood the building's bizarre features, which included corridors that ended abruptly, doors that opened to brick walls, and staircases leading nowhere. Holmes claimed it would serve as a hotel for visitors to the upcoming World's Fair, but its true purpose was far more sinister. As one worker observed, "I don't know what to make of Holmes... he asked me if I wouldn't like to make money easier than that, and of course I told him yes." What made Holmes particularly effective as a predator was his understanding of the social transformations occurring in America during the 1890s. Young women were, for the first time in history, moving to cities alone to seek employment. As social reformer Jane Addams noted, "Never before in civilization have such numbers of young girls been suddenly released from the protection of the home and permitted to walk unattended upon the city streets and to work under alien roofs." In this environment of anonymity and transition, people could vanish without raising immediate alarm, especially during the World's Fair when Chicago was flooded with visitors. Holmes targeted these vulnerable young women with calculated precision. He would gain their trust through his charismatic personality and apparent wealth, sometimes proposing marriage or business partnerships. Once he had isolated his victims, he would lead them into his vault or one of the soundproof rooms, where he would asphyxiate them with gas or chloroform. The bodies would be stripped of flesh in the basement, with skeletons sometimes sold to medical schools, while other remains were destroyed in his kiln or dissolved in chemical baths. He later employed Charles Chappell, a skilled "articulator" of skeletons, to clean the bones of his victims, which Holmes then sold to medical colleges. The contrast between the idealistic White City rising in Jackson Park and Holmes' house of horrors just miles away embodied the contradictions of America at the dawn of the modern era. Both were products of the same forces - urbanization, technological innovation, and professional credentials. Yet one represented humanity's highest aspirations, while the other exploited modernity's dark potential. As the nation celebrated progress and cultural refinement, it simultaneously harbored darker currents of exploitation, violence, and moral corruption that would define the coming century.

Chapter 4: The Fair Opens: Triumph Amid Economic Crisis (1893)

On May 1, 1893, the World's Columbian Exposition officially opened to tremendous fanfare as President Grover Cleveland pressed a golden telegraph key, setting in motion the fair's machinery. Though many buildings remained unfinished and the grounds were still muddy in places, visitors were nevertheless awestruck by the scale and beauty of what Burnham and his team had created. The contrast between the gleaming white buildings of the Court of Honor and the industrial grime of Chicago proper was so striking that many visitors wept upon first seeing it. The White City had materialized against all odds - a collection of neoclassical palaces surrounding a grand basin, all illuminated by the revolutionary electric lighting system designed by Westinghouse using Nikola Tesla's alternating current. The fair's timing proved tragically ironic. Just days after the opening, the New York Stock Exchange experienced a massive crash on May 5, 1893, triggering what would become the worst depression the nation had yet experienced. Banks failed by the hundreds, railroads went bankrupt, and unemployment soared to unprecedented levels. Inside Jackson Park, visitors marveled at visions of prosperity and technological advancement; outside, breadlines formed and labor unrest intensified. This economic crisis severely affected attendance during the fair's early months, threatening the exposition's financial viability and forcing Burnham to implement cost-cutting measures even as he fought to complete unfinished exhibits. Despite these challenges, the fair showcased technological marvels that would shape the coming century. Visitors encountered Edison's Kinetoscope showing moving pictures, heard recorded sound on phonographs, and rode on the first Ferris Wheel, which rose 264 feet above the Midway and carried 2,160 passengers at a time. The fair introduced Americans to products that would become household staples: Cracker Jack, Shredded Wheat, Juicy Fruit gum, and Pabst Blue Ribbon beer all debuted at the exposition. By night, the fair transformed into an even more magical experience, with buildings outlined in thousands of electric bulbs creating a spectacle that no American had ever seen before - a city of light reflected in the waters of the lagoons. The Midway Plaisance, a mile-long strip connecting Jackson Park to Washington Park, represented both the fair's popular appeal and its problematic aspects. Under the direction of Sol Bloom, a young impresario, the Midway featured villages representing cultures from around the world, from Cairo to Dahomey to Java. While ostensibly educational, these exhibits often presented non-Western peoples as exotic curiosities for the entertainment of white Americans. Native Americans were displayed alongside their artifacts as living museum pieces, while African villages were presented as curiosities for white audiences. The implicit message reinforced the period's racial hierarchies: Western civilization, as represented by the White City, stood at the pinnacle of human achievement, while other cultures remained primitive and backward. As summer turned to fall, attendance at the fair reached its peak. Chicago Day on October 9, 1893, set an attendance record with over 750,000 visitors. The exposition ultimately welcomed more than 27 million people during its six-month run - equivalent to about forty percent of the U.S. population at that time. For many Americans, the fair provided their first encounter with electric lights, foreign cultures, and the possibilities of urban planning. Frederick Jackson Turner delivered his influential "frontier thesis" at a historians' conference held at the fair, arguing that the closing of the American frontier marked the end of the first phase of American history. The White City had become more than just an exhibition; it represented an idealized vision of what American cities could become - orderly, beautiful, and clean.

Chapter 5: Contrasting Architectures: Dreams and Nightmares

The architectural contrast between Burnham's White City and Holmes's "Murder Castle" encapsulated the fundamental contradictions of America's Gilded Age. Both structures were products of the same historical moment, yet they represented opposing visions of modernity's potential. The White City embodied America's highest aspirations - a carefully planned urban environment where beauty, order, and technology combined to elevate human experience. Its uniform cornice heights, coordinated design, and grand vistas created a sense of harmony that stood in stark contrast to the chaotic growth of industrial cities. The buildings themselves, though constructed of temporary materials, conveyed permanence and dignity through their classical proportions and details. Holmes's building, conversely, was designed to deceive. Its ordinary exterior concealed a labyrinth of horrors - rooms designed for asphyxiation, chutes for disposing of bodies, and a basement equipped for dismemberment and destruction of human remains. While the White City celebrated human achievement and cooperation, Holmes's architecture exploited human vulnerability and trust. His building represented the dark underside of urbanization - the anonymity that allowed predators to operate undetected, the breakdown of traditional community safeguards, and the blind faith placed in professional credentials and modern appearances. The two structures employed technology in dramatically different ways. At the fair, electricity illuminated grand spaces and powered exhibits celebrating human ingenuity. In Holmes's building, gas pipes delivered poison to sealed rooms, and modern cremation equipment destroyed evidence of crimes. Both Burnham and Holmes were innovators who pushed boundaries, but to vastly different ends. Burnham's innovations served to inspire and uplift; Holmes's served to kill and conceal. This duality reflected broader tensions in American society, where rapid technological advancement created both new possibilities for human flourishing and new methods of exploitation and destruction. The social implications of these contrasting architectures were equally significant. The White City presented a vision of urban life that was orderly, clean, and uplifting - a stark contrast to the industrial "Black City" of Chicago proper with its pollution, poverty, and crowded tenements. Yet this vision was accessible primarily to the privileged. While the fair's admission price of fifty cents was not prohibitive for middle-class visitors, it represented a significant barrier for the working poor, especially as the depression deepened. Similarly, Holmes's crimes disproportionately affected vulnerable populations - young women traveling alone, people seeking employment, those without strong family connections to notice their disappearance. Perhaps most significantly, both structures were facades in different ways. The White City, for all its grandeur, was built of temporary materials never meant to last. Its gleaming surfaces concealed wooden frames that would quickly deteriorate once the fair ended. Holmes's building likewise presented a respectable face to the world while hiding unspeakable horrors within. This tension between appearance and reality characterized the Gilded Age itself - a term coined by Mark Twain to describe an era that glittered on the surface but concealed corruption and inequality beneath. The legacy of these contrasting architectures extended far beyond 1893. Burnham's vision influenced the City Beautiful movement that transformed American urban planning in the early 20th century, while Holmes's crimes foreshadowed modern concerns about urban anonymity and predation. Together, they represent the dual possibilities of modernity - its capacity to elevate humanity through planning and technology, and its potential to create new forms of exploitation and violence when those same forces are perverted.

Chapter 6: Aftermath and Investigation: The Monster Unmasked

As the winter of 1893-1894 descended on Chicago, both the White City and Holmes's castle faced their demise, though in dramatically different ways. The magnificent buildings of the exposition, never intended to be permanent, stood abandoned in Jackson Park. On July 5, 1894, during the violent Pullman Strike that paralyzed the nation's railroads, arsonists set fire to several of the fair's main buildings. The conflagration that consumed these palaces seemed to symbolize the end of the Gilded Age dream, as labor unrest and economic hardship revealed the fragility of America's progress. Holmes, meanwhile, had fled Chicago as creditors closed in and families of missing women began asking uncomfortable questions. He traveled to Fort Worth, Texas, where he attempted to use property fraudulently obtained from one of his victims, Minnie Williams. From there, he moved to St. Louis and eventually Philadelphia, always accompanied by his assistant Benjamin Pitezel. In July 1894, Holmes and Pitezel executed their most audacious fraud: faking Pitezel's death to collect on a $10,000 life insurance policy. This scheme proved to be Holmes's undoing when Marion Hedgepeth, a train robber whom Holmes had consulted about the plan, tipped off authorities after Holmes failed to pay him his promised share. On November 17, 1894, Holmes was arrested in Boston for horse theft - a minor charge that allowed police to hold him while they investigated the insurance matter. As detectives dug deeper, they discovered a far more horrifying truth: Holmes had not only murdered Pitezel but had also killed three of Pitezel's children - Howard, Nellie, and Alice - as he traveled with them through the Midwest and Northeast. Even more disturbing, Holmes had manipulated Pitezel's wife Carrie, convincing her that her husband was still alive while secretly murdering her children. The investigation that followed demonstrated the emergence of modern detective methods. Philadelphia detective Frank Geyer embarked on an extraordinary manhunt in June 1895, meticulously tracing Holmes's movements through hotel registers, train schedules, and real estate records. Geyer's methods were revolutionary for the time - he created detailed timelines, interviewed hundreds of witnesses, and used telegraph communications to coordinate with police departments across multiple states and Canada. After weeks of searching, Geyer discovered the bodies of Alice and Nellie Pitezel buried in a cellar in Toronto, and later found Howard Pitezel's remains in Irvington, Indiana. Back in Chicago, police began a thorough examination of Holmes's "Castle" in Englewood. They discovered evidence of numerous victims: hidden rooms, a dissection table, acid vats, and human remains. Women's personal items - watches, shoes, clothing - were found hidden throughout the building. A large stove contained bone fragments, and vats of acid held partially dissolved human remains. As news of these discoveries spread, the press dubbed Holmes "The Arch Fiend of the Age" and his building "The Murder Castle." The Chicago Tribune wrote: "The Castle, with its hundred rooms, its secret passages, its hidden staircases, its asbestos-lined chambers, its poisons, its traps, its chemicals, and its crematory, was built for murder." Holmes's trial for the murder of Benjamin Pitezel began in Philadelphia in October 1895. The evidence against him was overwhelming, and he was quickly convicted and sentenced to death. While awaiting execution, Holmes wrote a confession claiming to have killed 27 people, though he later recanted parts of it. On May 7, 1896, Holmes was hanged at Philadelphia's Moyamensing Prison. His final request was to be buried in concrete, supposedly fearing that his body would be stolen for dissection - an ironic concern given his own history of cadaver theft. "I was born with the devil in me," Holmes wrote in his confession. "I could not help the fact that I was a murderer, no more than the poet can help the inspiration to sing."

Chapter 7: Legacy: How the Fair and the Fiend Shaped Modern America

The dual legacy of the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition and H.H. Holmes's crimes continues to influence American culture and society well into the 21st century. The White City established a vision of urban planning that transformed American cities through the City Beautiful movement. Daniel Burnham went on to create influential master plans for Washington D.C., Cleveland, San Francisco, and Manila, applying the principles demonstrated at the fair on a larger scale. The neoclassical architecture of the exposition inspired countless public buildings across America, from train stations to libraries to courthouses. Even today, when Americans envision civic grandeur, they often unconsciously reference the aesthetic established by the White City. The fair accelerated numerous technological and cultural developments that shaped modern America. Its use of alternating current electricity, championed by Westinghouse and Tesla against Edison's direct current, helped establish the standard that would electrify the nation. The Midway Plaisance created the template for the modern amusement park, directly influencing Coney Island and eventually Disneyland. Products introduced at the fair, from Shredded Wheat to the Ferris Wheel, became fixtures of American life. The exposition also marked a pivotal moment in American consumer culture, introducing millions to the concept of branded products and mass marketing. Holmes's crimes similarly cast a long shadow over American society. He is widely considered America's first serial killer, though not the first person to commit multiple murders. What distinguished Holmes was his methodical approach, his exploitation of modern conditions, and the public's fascination with his case. His story revealed the dark potential of urbanization and anonymity - the same forces that enabled the fair's grandeur also created conditions where predators could operate undetected. Modern concerns about urban safety, the vulnerability of women in public spaces, and the potential for professional credentials to mask malevolent intentions all trace back to the shock of Holmes's crimes. The juxtaposition of these two phenomena - one representing humanity's highest aspirations, the other its darkest capabilities - continues to fascinate because it captures an essential truth about modernity itself. Progress is never unambiguous; technological and social advancements create new possibilities for both good and evil. The same modern city that offers freedom, opportunity, and cultural enrichment also enables new forms of exploitation, alienation, and predation. This duality remains central to the American experience, as each new wave of innovation brings both promise and peril. Perhaps most significantly, both the fair and Holmes's crimes revealed how appearances can be dangerously deceiving. The White City, for all its grandeur, was a temporary illusion - a plaster facade that concealed wooden frames never meant to last. Holmes similarly presented a respectable, charming exterior that hid monstrous intentions. This tension between appearance and reality characterized the Gilded Age itself and continues to resonate in American culture, from our skepticism toward institutions to our fascination with true crime narratives that reveal the darkness behind seemingly normal facades. As we continue to build our own cities and technologies, we would do well to remember the lessons of 1893 Chicago. True progress requires not just dazzling achievements but also safeguards against the darker potentials that accompany them. The greatest legacy of both Burnham and Holmes may be this awareness of how thin the line can be between our highest aspirations and our darkest capabilities - and how the same forces that enable one often make possible the other.

Summary

The juxtaposition of the gleaming White City and Holmes's Murder Castle encapsulates the fundamental contradiction of America's Gilded Age: a period of unprecedented progress, innovation, and optimism that simultaneously harbored deep moral corruption and exploitation. This duality ran through every aspect of American society in the late 19th century. The magnificent neoclassical buildings of the World's Columbian Exposition represented the nation's aspirations toward beauty, order, and civilization, while just miles away, the squalid conditions of Chicago's tenements and slaughterhouses revealed the harsh realities of industrial capitalism. Similarly, the fair's celebration of technological innovation and human achievement stood in stark contrast to the economic depression and labor unrest that gripped the nation outside its gates. This historical narrative offers crucial insights for our contemporary world. First, it reminds us that technological and material progress alone cannot create a just or moral society - the same modern conditions that made the fair possible (mass transportation, urbanization, professional credentials) also enabled Holmes's predatory crimes. Second, it demonstrates how easily we can be seduced by appearances and charismatic personalities, whether in the form of gleaming white buildings or a blue-eyed doctor with a winning smile. Finally, it suggests that our greatest achievements often emerge from periods of intense contradiction and struggle, as exemplified by Burnham's triumph in creating the White City despite overwhelming obstacles. As we navigate our own era of technological disruption, economic inequality, and social transformation, the events of 1893 Chicago offer both a cautionary tale and an inspiration - a reminder that human nature contains the capacity for both magnificent creation and terrible destruction, often simultaneously and in the same place.

About Author

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Erik Larson

Erik Larson is the author of nine books and one audio-only novella. His latest book, The Demon of Unrest, is a non-fiction thriller about the five months between Lincoln’s election and the start of the Civil War. Six of his books became New York Times bestsellers. Two of these, The Splendid and the Vile: A Saga of Churchill, Family, and Defiance During the Blitz and Dead Wake: The Last Crossing of the Lusitania, both hit no. 1 on the list soon after launch. His chronicle of the Chicago World’s Fair of 1893, The Devil in the White City, was a finalist for the National Book Award, and won an Edgar Award for fact-crime writing. It lingered on various Times bestseller lists for the better part of a decade and is currently in development at Disney Studios. Erik’s In the Garden of Beasts, about how America’s first ambassador to Nazi Germany and his daughter experienced the rising terror of Hitler’s rule, is currently in development with StudioCanal and Playtone.Erik’s first book of narrative nonfiction, Isaac’s Storm, about the giant hurricane that destroyed Galveston, Texas, in 1900, won the American Meteorology Society’s prestigious Louis J. Battan Author’s Award. The Washington Post called it the “Jaws of hurricane yarns.” Erik is particularly pleased to have won the Chicago Public Library Foundation’s 2016 Carl Sandburg Literary Award for Non-Fiction.His audio novella, No One Goes Alone, while a work of fiction, is a ghost story based on real-life events and characters, including famed 19th-century psychologist William James. Erik refers to it as a ghost story with footnotes.He graduated summa cum laude from the University of Pennsylvania, where he studied Russian history, language and culture; he received a masters in journalism from Columbia University. After a brief stint at the Bucks County Courier Times, Erik became a staff writer for The Wall Street Journal, and later a contributing writer for Time Magazine. His magazine stories have appeared in The New Yorker, The Atlantic Monthly, Harper’s, and other publications.He has taught non-fiction writing at San Francisco State, the Johns Hopkins Writing Seminars, the University of Oregon, and the Chuckanut Writers Conference in Bellingham, Wash., and has spoken to audiences from coast to coast. A former resident of Seattle, he now lives in Manhattan with his wife, a neonatologist, who is also the author of the nonfiction memoir, Almost Home, which, as Erik puts it, “could make a stone cry.” They have three daughters in far-flung locations and professions. Their beloved dog Molly resides in an urn on a shelf overlooking Central Park, where they like to think she now spends most of her time.

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