The Driskill presides over Austin’s Sixth Street like a gilded ghost—its Romanesque arches and marble floors a testament to cattle-baron wealth, Civil-War heartbreak, and more than a century of whispered hauntings.
Built in 1886 by Colonel Jesse Driskill, the hotel was meant to be “the finest south of St. Louis.” Within four years the colonel had gambled away his fortune—and his beloved showpiece. Some say his cigar smoke still drifts through the corridors at 3 AM, a restless proprietor pacing the empire he lost.
One of the hotel’s most enduring legends is the little girl on the grand staircase. She is thought to be Samantha Houston, the four-year-old daughter of a Texas senator who slipped on the polished marble while chasing a rubber ball. Guests still hear the faint bounce-bounce of a toy when the lobby falls quiet, and cold spots bloom along the banister where tiny fingers once clutched for balance.
Room numbers shift over decades, but the “suicide suite”—now Room 525— retains its dread. Two separate brides allegedly ended their lives here, fifty years apart. Travelers report sudden cold drafts, water taps that open unbidden, and the heavy scent of wilted roses. Staff move floral arrangements from the hallway inside the room each morning—only to find them back outside by nightfall.
Not all spirits stay upstairs. In the Maximilian Room, mirrors purchased by Empress Carlota of Mexico are said to reflect more than living guests. Patrons describe a pale woman in Victorian black drifting just behind their own reflections—there one blink, gone the next.
Even Texas politics leaves an imprint: Lyndon B. Johnson announced his first congressional victory from the Driskill’s ballroom and courted Lady Bird in the dining room. Employees claim the elevator doors open by themselves at midnight, pausing on LBJ’s preferred floor as though awaiting the president’s unseen entourage.
From phantom cigar smoke to chandeliers that sway without a breeze, the Driskill invites visitors to touch history—and history, perhaps, to touch back. Whether you’re sipping Old Fashioneds beneath stained-glass domes or daring a night in Room 525, remember: every creak of the floorboards might be a story asking to be heard.