The Horse You Came In On Saloon

Established in 1775, this is the oldest continually operating saloon in the United States and the only bar in Maryland to survive Prohibition. Located in historic Fells Point, it may have been Edgar Allan Poe's last stop before his mysterious death.

The Horse You Came In On Saloon, established in 1775 in Baltimore's historic Fells Point, claims a distinction few bars can match: it may have served Edgar Allan Poe his last drink before the writer's mysterious death. On October 3, 1849, printer Joseph Walker found Poe lying in a gutter outside Gunner's Hall, a tavern just blocks away from The Horse. The legendary author was delirious, wearing clothes that weren't his own, and never fully regained consciousness. Taken to Washington Medical College, he lapsed in and out of lucidity for four days, repeatedly calling out a single name—"Reynolds"—that no one could identify. On October 7, 1849, at approximately 5 a.m., Poe died. His final words, according to attending physician John J. Moran: "Lord help my poor soul." His death certificate was lost or destroyed, and the cause remains debated to this day.

The most compelling theory involves "cooping," a brutal form of election fraud common in 1840s Baltimore. Political gangs would kidnap men, hold them in rooms called "coops," force them to drink, disguise them in different clothes, and drag them to multiple polling places to vote repeatedly. October 3rd was Election Day in Baltimore—and Gunner's Hall was a known cooping location. A William Hand Browne letter from Johns Hopkins University noted: "The general belief here is, that Poe was seized by one of these gangs, cooped, stupefied with liquor, dragged out and voted, and then turned adrift to die." The mysterious "Reynolds" may have been Henry Reynolds, the Fourth Ward voting judge where Poe was discovered.

Today, staff and patrons believe Poe's ghost—affectionately called "Edgar"—still haunts his favorite watering hole. He never appears directly before you; instead, witnesses report seeing his reflection in the bar's mirrors when no one is standing there. Bar Manager Robert Napier recalls working alone one morning when a figure walked past the railing. He looked up, called out that the bar was closed—and found no one there.

The paranormal activity is relentless. Late one night, two employees closing up watched a beer mug sitting on the bar suddenly shatter for no reason. The bartender showed the manager a photo from the night before—a mug had exploded in the exact same spot. Cash register drawers fly open repeatedly. The chandelier swings wildly without any breeze. TVs and lights turn on and off at will. On the fourth floor, a desk drawer opens by itself. The attic door cracks open on its own—and according to Napier, "If that door is cracked at all, the hair on the back of your neck is way up."

Poe's ghost is known for mischief: pulling barstools out from under patrons, throwing glasses to the floor—perhaps angry the saloon no longer serves cognac, his favorite drink. For years, staff left a glass of cognac out at closing; they report it would mysteriously empty overnight. Today, whiskey serves as his peace offering. A sign reading "Poe's Last Stop" hangs behind the bar, above his portrait.

Many staff members refuse to work alone in the building, especially at night. Floating orbs drift through the bar—believed to be spirit energy—and patrons report feeling hands on their shoulders when no one is behind them. In 2019, Food Network named The Horse You Came In On Saloon the most haunted restaurant in Maryland, noting the "high energy levels" that draw paranormal enthusiasts alongside those simply seeking America's oldest continually operating saloon.

The building itself tells a story of survival: it's the only bar in Maryland to operate before, during, and after Prohibition. The tin ceiling predates electricity, and an entryway to the speakeasy remains from the bootlegging era. Howard Gerber won the establishment in 1972 after a winning bet at Pimlico Race Course, renaming it and famously having a friend ride a horse through the bar on opening day. But even he couldn't escape the spirits—nor would today's owners want to. Edgar Allan Poe may have written tales of terror, but in death, he's become one himself.