Emily Morgan Hotel

Named the third most haunted hotel in the world by USA Today in 2015, this Gothic Revival skyscraper was San Antonio's first when it opened in 1924 as the Medical Arts Building. The terra cotta gargoyles depicting medical ailments hint at its original purpose. The building's most haunted floors - the 7th, 9th, and 14th (actually the 13th) - housed the psychiatric ward, surgical suites, waiting areas, and morgue. The hotel stands on the exact location of the Alamo's long barracks, where hundreds of soldiers perished.

The Emily Morgan Hotel was built in 1924 as the Medical Arts Building—a 13-story Gothic Revival tower that became the first "skyscraper" west of the Mississippi River. Designed by architect Ralph Cameron and built by J.M. Nix, its terra-cotta gargoyles each depict a different ailment, a nod to its original purpose housing doctors' offices and a hospital. The building served as a medical facility until 1976, including psychiatric wards on several floors and a morgue in the basement.

The hotel sits only a few hundred meters from the Alamo, on the exact site of the mission's long barracks where hundreds of soldiers perished in 1836. The ground beneath guests' beds is soaked with Texas's bloodiest history.

USA Today named it the third most-haunted hotel in the world. Historic Hotels of America spotlighted its ghost stories, and Hotels.com ranked it fourth most haunted, noting its half-century as a medical center. In 2019, Condé Nast Traveler named San Antonio one of the eight most haunted places in America, specifically citing the Emily Morgan.

The most active floors mirror the building's medical past: the 7th floor (psychiatric ward), 9th floor (waiting area), 12th floor (surgery), and the 14th floor—actually the 13th, renumbered to avoid bad luck—which housed both surgical suites and a morgue. The basement, former home of the morgue, is incredibly haunted. Staff see glowing orbs floating through the darkness, and the smell of burnt human flesh still permeates the walls.

Guests report cold brushes against their skin, lights flashing in rooms, and apparitions of nurses pushing gurneys down hallways. On upper floors, guests opening their doors have seen hospital patients in the hallway—only to find nothing when they look again. Bathtubs fill mysteriously with water. Phones ring with no call on the line. The smell of medicine and ointment lingers on the top floor, where surgeries once took place. Some guests catch glimpses of the old hospital out of the corner of their eye, scenes that vanish when observed directly.