Deep in the night, when the presses rumbled and only a handful of workers peopled the Houston Chronicle’s venerable downtown office and printing plant, ghostly music filled the dimly lit building’s sleeping hallways.
Some swore the melodies wafted from the top floor, once the opulent home of a select businessman’s club; others, just as adamant, insisted they came from the old gilded and mirrored vaudeville palace, which had vanished without a trace beneath the building’s white marble facade.
Ghosts don’t exist, of course. Nor, for that matter, do giants. Both, though, likely would have been right at home at 801 Texas Ave…