“Of all melancholy topics, the death of a beautiful woman is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.” Or, so said Edgar Allan Poe, who built an entire career on the back of the ill or deceased female persona. Yet, there is an undeniable lore surrounding unsettled, earthbound spirits of women from long ago times. Virtually every town has a lake where a woman dressed in white claws her way from the muck and gunk to roam dark roads in search of new victims. Even the smallest of small towns will tell a tale of a black widow whose husbands’ graves beg to speak. We poor women, accused of unspeakable acts, with souls that are, as far as legends would have us believe, chained to a netherworld where we cannot go back and certainly cannot go forward, must relive our worst moments, cyclically. Nowhere are these hauntings more prevalent, at least in their retellings and reimaginings, than The Driskill Hotel in downtown Austin. So, pull up a chair. I happen to know someone who spent two nights in the most haunted room inside of the most haunted hotel in the grand state of Texas. Me, someone is me. Insert hand raise emoji.
The year was 1887, one year after The Driskill’s grand opening. Stories tell us the name of the senator visiting the hotel with his 4-yearold daughter, Samantha, may have been Temple Lea Houston, son of Sam Houston, though we know not what business matters enveloped his schedule that day. In full discretion, Temple Lea has a child named Sam listed in his lineage, but with no designation to whether that is a son or daughter. Did said senator have business with the hotel owner, Colonel Driskill – the cattle baron hotel builder with the honorary military title? Was the senator otherwise occupied in the vast bar area of this swanky establishment, built to serve the capital’s legislators and visiting dignitaries? We don’t know. Legend tells us that Samantha either entered the hotel with a ball or was given one by the staff. Samantha was surely expected to busy herself while her father conducted business. The accident that happened is described differently depending on the year and the publication, but Samantha somehow ended up on the cold, marble floor of the lobby. Her death rocked the hotel. It is said about founder Driskill, the young child’s demise propelled him further into a gambling abyss that led to the loss of his beloved hotel. Guests throughout the hotel’s history say they can hear Samantha’s laughter on the 5th floor from where she fell, her giggles and the sound of her ball reverberating into the night. We know Driskill commissioned a portrait of Samantha that still hangs in the 5th floor hallway of the historic wing. Guests report a feeling of levitation when viewing the portrait, along with a change in the image’s expression.
Next come the tales of the suicide brides, two jilted women, each left at the altar by their respective grooms, who took their lives on the same day, in the same hotel room (number 525) twenty years apart. The latter bride passed in 1991, fleeing to Austin to run up the credit cards of the man who never showed up to their wedding. Guests did not report any commotion or gunshots within the hotel that day, but police are said to have found evidence of the down pillows from 525’s bed being formed into a makeshift silencer. We know nothing about the 70s era bride who never checked out of The Driskill, but our 90s gal is known as Tara. Celebrity ghost hunters have reported energy and temperature fluctuations at the doorway of room 525 where the brides are thought to roam the halls, wringing their hands in despair. Guests say fruity, floral perfume awoke them from their sleep when staying in that room.
Finally, we have the legend of Ladybird Johnson, who met the POTUS, then senator LBJ, in the Driskill bar back in 1934. President Johnson loved the hotel so much, he used the Heritage Suite to host all his election return events, from the House to the oval office. Claudia Alta Johnson, born deep in East Texas in 1912, was called Ladybird after a nurse claimed her to be “as purty as a lady bird.” Austin, especially, loves Ladybird Johnson, even naming the town lake and multiple events after her. Ladybird is said to haunt many places, including her birthplace in Karnack (also said to be haunted by her mother), and the capital in Washington, DC. But many folks who’ve been lucky enough to spent time in the Heritage Suite of The Driskill say she’s definitely there, as well. They report smelling the president’s cologne and catching site of a lady’s lace handkerchief on occasion.
When I checked into The Driskill Hotel recently, the front desk clerk raised one eyebrow. “Ma’am, do you know about this room? I see you requested 525.” I responded, “It’s my birthday. This is a bucket list trip.” He smiled, handed us our key cards, and wished us luck. I am equal parts thrilled and disappointed to tell you that, other than some weird electrical buzzes near my bedside lamp and a television that displayed zero available channels for the first 3 hours of our stay, nothing happened. I stood in front of Samantha’s commissioned portrait many times and never levitated. I didn’t hear any crying brides or bouncing balls. Not a single child’s giggle permeated the night. It seems the women felt safe in my company, at least this time. In the words of Poe, “They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only at night.”
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