Herman Webster Mudgett, better known as H. H. Holmes, was an American serial killer. He confessed to the murder of 27 people during the 1893 World's Fair in Chicago.
A tale of a man, with secrets untold, H. H. Holmes, his story, chilling and cold. In the city of Chicago, where shadows reside, Holmes built a hotel, where evil would hide. Its halls were a maze, a sinister design, a house of horrors, where death would entwine. Oh, his smile was charming, his eyes filled with guile, but behind that facade, lay a monster so vile. He lured in his victims, with promises sweet, to the Murder Castle, where they'd meet their defeat. Each room held a secret, a macabre surprise, trapped within walls, where no one heard their cries. Hidden passages, soundproofed and grim, a twisted lair, where the light grew dim. Whispers echoed through the corridors at night, as Holmes roamed freely, his thirst for blood in sight. He'd trap them, these souls, in rooms of despair, their hopes extinguished, as he reveled in their fear. Oh, the basement below, a place of dread and despair, a chilling abattoir, where he'd dismember and prepare. Bodies dissolved in acid, bones ground to dust, a ghastly operation, fueled by his bloodlust ... does anyone find it odd that the same exact number he confessed to is also the same number of years Pennywise is rumored to hibernate? Just me? Okay.