True Crime Studies: A Serial Killer in His Own Words by H.H. Holmes
Have you ever heard a terrible liar, and I mean Pinocchio terrible, try to worm their way out of a bad situation? The way they stumble over their lies until they can’t keep them straight anymore, struggling to weave together a story that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense. It’s painful to listen to and even more painful to read. I read this and asked myself, what the heck is this? Was infamous serial killer H.H. Holmes, master manipulator, on something when he wrote this laughable attempt at both a memoir and a self-defense statement or was there just no editor in the prison? Either way, he would’ve had better luck trying his hand at fiction because that’s basically what this is.
This isn’t the only book written by a criminal, a serial killer, and I doubt it’ll be the last. There is something about such a description, “a killer in their own words” that is impossible to resist. It allows people to get even closer, whilst keeping a safe distance, to men and women the world has perceived as evil and gives them the opportunity to potentially dissect just a fraction of their minds. H.H. Holmes, John Wayne Gacy, David Berkowitz, Jack Unterweger, etc. These are all convicted killers that have used literature to try and change public perception of them with various degrees of success. Jack Unterweger, convicted of murdering a prostitute in 1976 was actually triumphant when he wrote his autobiography titled Fegefeuer Oder Die Reise Ins Zuchthaus (Purgatory or the Trip to Jail – Report of a Guilty Man). In the book, Unterweger explains his actions with a sob story about an abusive mother. The story was so compelling that it actually managed to change the state’s mind and he was released on parole in 1990. Unfortunately for young women in that area, it didn’t take long for him to start dropping bodies and he was arrested again in 1994.
A counter to Unterweger is John Wayne Gacy who had much less luck with his memoir A Question of Doubt in 1993. Although both books feature the killer in question trying to prove their innocence they are very different in execution and style. Gacy’s method of defense was to try and create a conspiracy theory about his conviction and blamed his crimes on other killers that the police were not prosecuting. A Question of Doubt didn’t do anything other than become a morbid collector’s item for true crime devotees.
H.H. Holmes falls somewhere in the middle. Not in public perception but in the method at which he writes his own memoir/defense story and it is probably the most ridiculous, bewildering, nonsensical narrative that a man on trial for murder could ever create. It’s so bad that just confessing would have made him look better. Holmes: A Serial Killer in His Own Words makes absolutely no sense. It should be taught in schools on how NOT to write or to lie. It’s not that the explanations he gives don’t make sense, although most are far-fetched, but that they’re written as if he loses track of them within moments of writing them down. There is a part in the book where he admits to having a body stashed in his hotel room but it’s for the purpose of a life insurance scam that’s ruined when a cop busts in. He tricks the cop into leaving then convinces the other hotel residents that the cop was actually a robber. He then puts the body in a trunk and lugs it around for a few days. This is an actual scene in the book that quickly moves on to something else completely unrelated.
While I was reading this I was torn between laughing and reaching through the pages all the way through to Holmes’ prison cell and ripping that pen away from him. Maybe slap him around a bit.
Herman Webster Mudgett, better known as Dr. Henry Howard Holmes “H. H. Holmes,” was an American serial killer best-known for the so-called “Murder Castle” that he built in 1887 and had up and running during the World’s Columbian Exposition set in Chicago in 1893. Built to kill people, the Castle had soundproofed rooms and mazes of hallways, some of which seemed to go nowhere, and sections that were designed to be nothing but death traps. It is widely believed that he had killed hundreds of people in this building, but not only was Holmes a murderer, he was also big a fan of insurance fraud. This guy probably scammed more women and business owners than one person in history, often in the laziest of ways, and he actually uses his time as an insurance hustler as a crutch while making up his defense in A Serial Killer in His Own Words.
Erik Laron’s The Devil in the White City explores much of this in great detail if anyone is interested (great book).
When Holmes was arrested on November 17, 1894, he immediately started on the numerous contradictory claims that would dictate his post-arrest life. His time in prison was relatively short as he was put to death just two years later, but for a large portion of that time, he worked at trying to prove his innocence. He picked up a pen and started writing the “truth” only no two accounts matched. His confessions changed constantly and often made little sense. As time went on, his claims started to morph into something resembling self-damnation as he’d later change his stance on innocence, deciding that he was pure evil, a man possessed by the devil. He claimed to be so vile and demonic that he was starting to resemble Satan in the face.
Such statements would normally accompany feelings of remorse or fear of death as the accused realizes that they’re coming closer to their execution. However, that was not the case for Holmes. Despite the admission of guilt and saying that he was possessed against his will, he remained oddly calm upon his arrival at the gallows.
If I could call A Serial Killer in His Own Words anything, it would be a study on mental deterioration, compulsive liars, and the psychopathic process of emotions. Throughout the chapterless passages that run across Holmes’s childhood and youth, there is a vain attempt at mimicking emotion and sympathy. In the beginning, Holmes takes a moment to briefly describe his parents and childhood but it is rushed and empty. Everything else he takes his sweet time talking about, but the one section of time that most people always stop to reminiscence about, he speeds past with a fast “my parents were lovely people” comment and leaves it there. As he describes himself as a boy, everything feels a bit hollow because I believe that he’s trying to imagine what the readers will think is sympathetic, but is unable to put himself in that mindset.
Once rushing past boyhood, you can tell we’ve reached the point in his life that he is most proud of. His medical accomplishments, education, the way he easily charms women, we get so much of this that it’s almost unbearable. One by one, Holmes meets the future victims that he claims he either hardly knew or cared for deeply and had no idea what happened to them, and again, we get more of the mimicry. Minnie and Nannie Willaims are two women, victims, that Holmes claims to care for and even love to some extent. However, the way he writes them, you can tell he doesn’t. He can’t wait to get past their section and get back to himself, which he does very quickly. The story of the Williams sisters, which ended in tragedy in real life, ends without a proper conclusion in Holmes’s narrative. He jumps around them, moving them around in the story so that he can clear his name while also not waste time talking about them and the result is a whole lot of bad writing.
I know this man was a serial killer, a monster even by the worse of standards but honestly, after reading A Serial Killer in His Own Words the man has lost the ominous allure as a study topic. This book could be adapted into a spoof movie about serial killers. That’s how ridiculous it is. Before, the man known as H.H. Holmes was on par with something demonic. He built this murderous castle, killed people beyond anything that can be called impulsive or pleasurable but as if that was the only thing his hands knew how to do, and his presence on this Earth felt ominous. Even after his death, his hotel was rumored to be cursed, with those who knew him touched by evil. However, after reading this, he no longer seems as such. As weird as it sounds, this almost ruins the shadow he casts over the city he once haunted because now when I think of him, I can only think of a guy that was incapable of telling a series of lies well enough to make sense. Plus, the stories he made up tells me that he probably read whatever the equivalent of cheesy detective novels was back then.
(2.5 / 5)
Imagine this. You’re home alone, waiting for your partner to return, when you hear a knock on your door. You answer it to see a family of five, bundled up against the cold. The father, a kindly older gentleman, explains that he used to live in this house as a boy. And he would love to show it to his family.
Do not let them in.
The story
Released in June 2024, We Used To Live Here is author Marcus Kliewer’s debut novel. It tells the story of Eve, who just purchased a beautiful house with her partner, Charlie. Their plan is to flip the house and sell it.
One night, while waiting for Charlie to come home, Eve is surprised by a knock at the door. It’s a man named Thomas Faust and his family.
Thomas explains that he grew up in the house and hasn’t been in the area in years. Would Eve let them in so that he can show the home to his children?
Against her better judgment, Eve lets them in. She regrets this almost at once when Thomas’s daughter vanishes somewhere into the house.
What worked
I always appreciate a book that allows you to play along with the mystery. And this book does that better than just about any other I’ve seen.
Pay close attention to the chapters, to the words that aren’t there. To everything about this novel.
This is mostly down to Kliewer. This is ultimately his work of art. But the production value is also fantastic. I don’t want to ruin the multiple mysteries, so I’ll just say this. There are clues in this book that require some specific artistic choices in the page layouts in this book. And I loved that.
If you’d like to experience another horror book review, check out this one.
We Used To Live Here is also the kind of story that makes you question everything right along with the main character, Eve. Eve is a great main character. But she might be an unreliable narrator. She might be experiencing every single horror described, exactly as it’s described. Or, she might be having a psychotic breakdown. Through most of the book, we can’t be sure. And that is so much fun.
Finally, the weather plays a large part in this story. There are several stories in which the weather or the land itself could be considered a character. Even an antagonist. This is certainly one. The winter storm is the thing that traps the family in the house with Eve. It also makes escaping the home difficult. Reading this book during the winter was especially impactful. Most of us know what it feels like to be shut in by a storm. I’ve personally lived through some of those storms that are just referred to by their year, as though they were impactful enough to claim the whole 365 days for themself. And that was with people I liked. Imagine what it would feel like with strangers. It’s a staggering thought and one that we explore in depth in this book.
In the end, We Used To Live Here is a fantastic book. It’s the sort of story that sneaks into your brain and puts down roots. And if this is just the first book we’re getting from Kliewer, I can’t wait to see what else he comes up with.
(5 / 5)
As a disclaimer, this is a review of The House of My Mother from a critical perspective. I will not be discussing my opinions of the legal case against Ruby Franke and Jody Hildebrandt. I will be discussing the merits of the book as a work of true crime alone.
In 2015, Ruby Franke started a YouTube channel called 8 Passengers. In August of 2023, Franke and her business associate Jodi Hildebrandt were arrested for, and later plead guilty to, charges of aggravated child abuse. And in January of this year, Shari Franke told her story in The House of My Mother.
The story
The House of My Mother is the true story of Shari Franke, the oldest child of one of the most famous family vlogger families.
As a child, Shari came to the conclusion that her mother didn’t like her. Soon, she began to fear her mother’s anger.
Things got significantly worse when Ruby started their family vlog. All of the families most intimate moments were splashed across the internet for anyone to watch. This became a living nightmare for Shari.
Of course, that was only the start of the family nightmare. Because Ruby was about to meet someone who would reinforce all of the darkest parts of herself.
Eventually Shari manages to escape her home. But her younger siblings were still in her mother’s clutches. She had to save them, and her father, from the monster her mother had become.
What worked
Through the book, Shari only ever mentions the name of one of her siblings, Chad. This is because Chad is the only of her siblings that is an adult at the time of the publication.
There are children involved in this story. Children who’s lives and privacy have already been damaged. Shari didn’t want to do that to them again, and neither do I.
It probably won’t surprise you that this book is full of upsetting details. But not in the way you might imagine.
Nowhere in this book will you find gory details about the abuse the Franke kids suffered. And I consider that a good thing. Those sort of details are all fun and games when we’re talking fiction. When it’s real kids who are really living with the damage, it’s not a good time.
What you’ll find instead is a slew of more emotionally devastating moments. One that stuck with me is when Ruby’s mother gives her a pair of silk pajamas as a gift after Ruby gave birth to one of her babies. Shari asks Ruby if she’d bring her silk pajamas when she had a baby. Ruby responds that yes, when Shari becomes a mother they can be friends.
What a lovely way to make a little girl feel like she’s not worth anything unless she reproduces. And, if she does decide to have children, who is going to bring her silk pajamas?
In the end, this isn’t a story about ghosts or demons. It’s not about a serial killer waiting on a playground or in the attic of an unsuspecting family. Instead, this is a story about things that really keep us up at night. It’s the story of a woman so obsessed with perfection that she drove away her eldest daughter. The story of a young woman who’s forced to watch from afar as her beloved brothers and sisters are terrorized and abandoned. These are the sorts of things that really keep us up at night. These are the real nightmares.
More than that, though, The House of My Mother is a story of survival. It’s about a family that was ripped apart and somehow managed to stitch itself back together again. It’s about a brave young woman who managed to keep herself safe and sane in the face of a nightmare. If you haven’t read it yet, I can’t recommend it enough.
For more like this, check out my review of Shiny Happy People.
(5 / 5)
Boreal: an Anthology of Taiga Horror is a collection of twenty-two haunting tales that dwell in the deepest darkest woods and frozen wastelands, edited by Katherine Silva and including Haunted MTL’s very own Daphne Fauber. Each story has even been gifted with its very own poster, hinting at the horrors to be found within it, bestowing a beautiful visual collection as well.
The tales are varied and touch upon the environment in new and different ways, each hearkening to a sort of epiphany or raised awareness. These stories exude both dread and wonder at the smallness of our human existence in contrast to the sacred world we have isolated from, sheltering ourselves in our comfortable houses with centralized heat and everything we could possibly need or want at the ready. The taiga becomes a sanctuary outside of our own dulled awarenesses. It is a holy place imbued with powers beyond mortal human reach, a wilderness that threatens to swallow us – both whole and bit by bit, simultaneously.
The protagonists enter into this realm through ritual, superstition, longing, stubbornness, and their own hubris – yearning to survive its dangers, and to make their own marks upon it. The starkness of their surroundings harbors delicate moments that would be all too easily missed if not deliberately sought or pointed out. The softness of fur, the dappled sunlight shining through trees, the hazy clouds of breath forming in crisp air, the brittleness of bleached bone… those quiet experiences that beg to be forgotten, to lay safely sleeping just below the frozen surface, awaiting spring.
There are those who followed in the footsteps of their predecessors, seeking to escape the constraints of their parent’s and elders’ indoctrination, traditions, madness, and abuse, yearning to find their own way despite also being inextricably bound to their own pasts. There are those who just wanted to go for a walk in the woods, and remained forever changed by what they experienced. There are those who wished to impose their will upon the wilderness, their order falling to disarray, unable to make lasting impact. There are those who sought to leave behind the world of mankind, looking for oneness in the natural order of things through isolation, leaving a bit of themselves behind after being consumed by the terrors they encountered. There are those who truly found communion with the woods, became one with its wildness, and invited its spirit into their hearts to find peace, even at cost of their own lives. And then, there are the spirits themselves…
(3 / 5)
All in all, I give Boreal: an Anthology of Taiga Horror 3.0 Cthulhus. I love existential angst so I found it to be an enjoyable read, and I appreciated the myriad manners in which the biome was explored. But there were points in which I found myself struggling to follow along, as if the words were swept up into their own wilds in ways that alienated myself as reader, as if my mere voyeurism into this otherworldly place was not enough to comprehend the subtle deviations in storytelling mannerisms fully. I suppose in some sense this seems appropriate, but at the same time, it left me feeling a bit unfulfilled, as if I had missed a spiritual connection that should have resonated more deeply.