Founded in 1829 by Michael Molloy, the Tullamore Distillery quickly established itself as a key player in Irish whiskey production. Its bonded warehouse at Bury Quay served an essential role—storing whiskey purchased by publicans and merchants who delayed paying excise duties until the spirit was removed from bond.

The distillery thrived through the 19th century but faced severe challenges in the early 20th, including the effects of U.S. Prohibition and trade disruptions with Britain. These pressures ultimately led to its closure in 1954. The Tullamore D.E.W. brand was later acquired by John Powers & Son, and production was transferred to the Midleton Distillery in County Cork.

In 2012, the historic Old Bonded Warehouse was restored and reopened as the Tullamore D.E.W. Visitor Centre, offering tours and tastings that celebrated the town’s whiskey-making legacy. However, in 2020, William Grant & Sons—current owners of the brand—closed the visitor centre to consolidate operations at their new, purpose-built distillery and visitor centre outside Tullamore, which had opened in 2014.

The Old Bonded Warehouse found new life again in 2022 when it reopened as The Old Warehouse, a bar and restaurant operated by a local hospitality group.

While no recent reports have emerged from the redeveloped site, former visitor centre staff described unexplained phenomena within the building—cold spots, disembodied footsteps, and lights switching on and off without cause.

According to an earlier story, the premises was also said to be haunted by a ghostly figure who lingered around the on-site pub. The pub was empty and quiet, the last of the customers long gone. The barman was washing dirty glasses, finishing up for the night. Or so he thought—until he noticed an elderly gentleman still seated quietly at the counter.

There were no Gardaí checking up after hours, so the barman decided to let the man be. He wasn’t causing any trouble. The barman continued with his cleaning and tidying while the old man seemed to enjoy his final drink, the small reward of a hard-lived life.

The barman didn’t recognize him—he wasn’t sure whether the man was local or just passing through. All the doors were locked; he’d checked them. The drinker at the bar now seemed to doze gently. Satisfied with his checks, the barman went around closing the windows.

Suddenly, the man stirred, tapped the counter, and asked for one last drink. “I’ll be with you in a minute,” the barman said. One more couldn’t hurt, he figured.

But as he turned around, glasses in hand, he was hit with a chill so deep it felt like it touched his soul. He froze where he stood. The drink almost slipped from his grasp. Because right there, where the old man had just been sitting—there was now nobody.

He hadn’t heard any footsteps, no door opening or closing. There was simply no way the man could have left. He looked around the bar, but it was empty.

The barman wasn’t someone who believed in ghosts or superstitions. But that night, in the silence of the locked-up pub, he had no other explanation for what he saw—or didn’t see.

It was then he realised: he’d just had a visit from the Old Bond Store Ghost.