Gabriel Brownstein’s debut novel, The Man From Beyond, reasserts the primacy of the cleanly written, captivating tale. Amidst so many writers who seem lost in their own words, sputtering in rococo self-indulgence, Brownstein stands out as an articulate storyteller—one who knows how to transport listeners to a specific time and place and then let the mystery of his narrative unfold; a storyteller who can concoct a story that leaves an audience prickling with anticipation. This is exactly what Brownstein does in The Man From Beyond, a novel set in New York City during 1922. It’s Prohibition and the still-fresh memories of the Great War, flappers and newspaper tabloids -- and a pair of celebrities locked in an unusual and public disagreement. Harry Houdini is pitted against his close friend, mystery writer Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in a debate over the merits of Spiritualism, with its mediums, séances, and claims of communication with the dead. Their intellectual conflict draws young newspaper reporter, Molly Goodman, into a much publicized investigation that causes them all to question their ideas of faith, psychology, and the loved ones that each have lost.

Brownstein has obviously done his research, and, starting from an intriguing historical tidbit, he is able to expand and embellish it into a realistically imagined world. This world is both vital and detailed without the whiff of dust and facts that can sometimes clutter historical fiction. From his descriptions of Molly’s boisterous, progressive Jewish parents to the slash of her short bob and ever-present cigarette, his recreation of life in the roaring ‘20s is en pointe. The historical context not only proves to be fertile ground for Brownstein’s literary imagination, but also serves as a perfect periscope into the sexual and spiritual anxieties of Brownstein’s characters, and, indeed, also the period. Houdini is haunted by the loss of his beloved mother; Doyle, by the loss of his son; and Molly, by the loss of her adored older brother, killed in the war. During a time of great change, each of them is looking for something—searching so hard sometimes that they are willing to dupe even themselves, no matter what the consequences.

Spiritualism, as Brownstein describes it, is a fusion of up-to-date technology, the desperation of longing, an illusionist’s showmanship, and, of course, the will to believe. The spiritualists’ fascination with bondage, ectoplasm, semi-nude display of beautiful mediums, ecstatic trances, and preternatural pseudopods extending from the medium’s vaginas all carry a hint of the changing sexual attitudes at the time, and Brownstein, understanding this, highlights this point beautifully without overplaying it. He also juxtaposes the unfolding personal developments for Molly, who, at 23, is halfheartedly involved with her quasi-girlfriend and former Vassar classmate, while also half-drawn, half-frightened by her attraction to childhood friend, Lyden, and Don Juanish coworker, Archie Miles. Sex, like the realm of ghostly voices and knocking spirits, is both infinitely appealing and infinitely frightening.

When Doyle happens to meet Margery, the most famed medium of the day, along with her husband and showman, the sly Dr. Sabatier, the debate accelerates, and Molly realizes that the Spiritualism story is of more than passing interest. Houdini’s life is threatened, an attempt to sabotage one of his great stunts is made, and the lines between chicanery and miracle blur. Meanwhile, the quotidian yet pressing challenges of love, loss, and independence are thrown into high relief as Molly struggles to assert herself to her all-male coworkers, her well-intentioned parents, and her would-be lovers. Although she struggles to acknowledge it, the tension between Doyle’s desperate belief and Houdini’s methodical hesitation captures the very essence of Molly’s own ambivalence, and in the end, her own quest for reconciliation with her understanding of death.

The Man From Beyond might well be placed on shelves nearby other excellent works of similar ilk like Andrew Sean Greer’s The Confessions of Max Tivoli and Michael Chabon’s The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, where it will surely not be overshadowed. As do Greer and Chabon, Brownstein too writes with great poignancy and insight into these lives lived during a critical historical moment in the early American twentieth century. Brownstein’s first novel is proof that he is a fiction writer of first rate, with an imagination matched only by his eloquence and historical acumen.