Imagine checking into a hotel in 1861. Not just any hotel, but a six-story brick building. Over the course of your stay, the front stairs have grown noticeably steeper each time you return. When you check out five days later, the windows that once sat at eye level are now several feet above your head.

This isn’t a ghost story. It’s an actual anecdote from the raising of Chicago, when engineers used thousands of screwjacks to lift the city’s brick structures six feet above their previous elevation. In some cases, as with the Tremont House Hotel, the laborers worked in covered trenches, permitting business to be conducted as usual. This brought the city above the water line, permitted the construction of a sewer system, and hopefully prevented another outbreak of cholera from killing one in twenty inhabitants. Chicago was saved. At least until the next decade, when a cow would kick over a lantern in Mrs. O’Leary’s barn.

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