If you walk down Ninth Street in downtown St. Louis, you’ll likely pass a building that looks like it’s holding onto a dozen secrets. It’s white. It’s ornate. Honestly, it’s a bit of a ghost. The Mark Twain Hotel St. Louis isn't just one story; it’s a weird, messy, beautiful timeline of a city that keeps trying to reinvent itself.
Most people think it’s just another abandoned relic. Others remember it as a "flophouse." Some are waiting for it to become a fancy Hilton. The truth? It’s currently in a state of high-stakes limbo. As of early 2026, the building at 205 North Ninth Street is a lightning rod for lawsuits, big dreams, and some of the most stunning terra cotta you’ll ever see in the Midwest.
The Identity Crisis of 205 North Ninth
Before it was the Mark Twain, it was the Maryland Hotel. Built in 1907, it was the brainchild of architect Albert B. Groves. He didn't just want a building; he wanted a statement.
Groves went heavy on the Classical Revival style. We're talking fruit, flowers, and intricate patterns baked into the facade. If you look closely at the second floor today, you can still see the original terra cotta. It’s remarkably intact despite a century of Missouri humidity and downtown exhaust.
Wait. There’s a catch.
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There were actually two Mark Twain Hotels. This confuses everyone. The "Pick-Mark Twain" was over at 8th and Pine. That one was 15 stories of brick-and-mortar history that met a wrecking ball in 1976. When locals talk about the "Mark Twain," they’re usually talking about the 8-story Maryland building that survived.
From Luxury to the "Last Resort"
By the 1980s, the glitz was gone. The Maryland—now the Mark Twain—had transitioned into a Single Room Occupancy (SRO) hotel.
SROs are a rare breed now. They basically offer tiny rooms with shared bathrooms for people who can't afford a traditional apartment. For decades, the Mark Twain filled a niche that nobody else wanted to touch. It became a haven for people coming out of the justice system, the elderly on fixed incomes, and folks just trying to stay off the street.
It gained a reputation. A "sordid" one, as the preservationists put it.
But here’s the thing: in 2008, data showed the building wasn't the crime hive people claimed it was. It was just a place where poor people lived. Developer Amos Harris put millions into it in the late 90s to keep it functional as affordable housing. He saw the value in keeping a diverse population downtown.
Then the money got weird.
The Hilton Tapestry Dream (and the Lawsuits)
Flash forward to 2024 and 2025. The plan was to flip the script.
The building was slated to become a boutique Hilton Tapestry hotel. The vision was 175 rooms of high-end luxury, aiming to capitalize on the proximity to the America's Center Convention Complex. For a minute, it looked like the Mark Twain Hotel St. Louis was finally going to get its second act.
But "plans" in St. Louis are often just expensive pieces of paper.
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By June 2025, the project hit a wall. Hard. A state-court judge approved a judgment against the property owner because an architecture firm claimed they hadn't been paid. The building was slapped with a $7 million "for sale" sign.
The redevelopment stalled. The residents were moved out. The windows stayed dark.
Why You Should Care About the Architecture
Even if you don’t care about real estate drama, you should care about the terra cotta. It’s basically the "white gold" of St. Louis architecture.
The Mark Twain’s exterior is a masterclass in the Beaux-Arts influence. Most of the original cornice is gone—lost to time or safety concerns—but the bay windows are still there. They give the building this rhythmic, vertical energy.
- The Second Story: Entirely covered in terra cotta.
- The Motifs: Fruit, flowers, and even some controversial historical symbols that predated their modern associations.
- The Structure: Steel frame with concrete floors. It’s built like a tank.
It’s one of only a handful of historic hotels left in the central business district. If it goes, we’re left with glass boxes and parking lots.
The Current 2026 Reality
Walking by today is a bit eerie. The building is officially a "candidate for redevelopment."
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What does that mean for you? It means you can't book a room. You can't go inside for a drink. You can only stand on the corner of Ninth and Pine and look up.
Is it a "flophouse" anymore? No. Is it a luxury hotel? Not yet. It’s a 91,000-square-foot question mark.
Recent rumors on places like Reddit suggest a new partner might be stepping in, but the $7 million price tag and the legal baggage make it a tough sell. Downtown St. Louis is struggling with a "perception problem" regarding safety, even though the actual crime stats often tell a different story than the headlines.
Actionable Insights for the Curious
If you're a history buff or a traveler passing through, here is how to actually engage with the Mark Twain Hotel St. Louis without being able to go inside:
- The Photo Angle: The best light hits the building in the late afternoon. Stand on the southwest corner of 9th and Pine to get the full height of the bay windows against the sky.
- The Comparison Walk: Walk two blocks over to the Paul Brown building. It’s also undergoing a massive $15 million renovation. Comparing the two gives you a clear picture of what the Mark Twain could look like if the Hilton deal finally closes.
- Check the Tax Credits: If you’re a real estate nerd, the building is in a federal Opportunity Zone. That’s the only reason it hasn't been demolished yet. The tax incentives are the only thing keeping the lights—potentially—on.
- Visit the Museum: Since you can't go into the St. Louis Mark Twain, take a day trip to Hannibal. The Mark Twain Hotel there (yes, another one) is a totally different beast but actually lets you see how the name was used to drive 20th-century tourism.
The Mark Twain isn't dead. It’s just sleeping, likely waiting for the next developer with enough cash to settle the old debts and enough ego to try and save a 119-year-old landmark.
Check back in six months. In this city, that’s usually how long it takes for a "final" plan to either crumble or finally break ground. For now, it remains a gorgeous, silent sentinel of Ninth Street.