Elliston, on the tip of Newfoundland’s Bonavista Peninsula, is no stranger to visitors. Thousands of people pass through the tiny community every summer. Some people go to see the colony of Atlantic puffins that nest on its shores, others to explore the world root cellar capital, still more to see the Sealers Memorial.

These tourists are welcomed with open arms but, once upon a time, the community had a visitor they’d have done anything to be rid of; a visitor so terrifying it sent them into the darkness of night weilding hatchets.

The strange visitor came to be known as the Thunder Growl.

It happened a long time ago, nobody quite knows when but it was back in the days when the area was better known as Bird Island Cove.

Night of the Thunder Growl

It was cold.

Despite the temperature there was no sea ice anywhere around Bird Island Cove; from the rocky shore to the horizon there was nothing but blue sky and open sea.

It was beautiful but more importantly it was a good day for working.

The woods around the cove echoed with the sound of axes. It was the perfect time to haul firewood. While the ocean was free of ice, the ponds near the community were frozen solid which meant horse drawn sleds and dog teams could make a short path to the best timber. A horse crossing a frozen pond could deliver a sled of firewood in a fraction of the time taken by one using woods trails.

Not far from town, Peter Chaulk was sitting by a small campfire enjoying a cup of tea. There was nothing quite like a cup of tea brewed in the woods, he thought. It was even better if it came after a successful day’s work.

Peter looked with pride at Lady, his mare. She was harnessed to a sled full of timber. It certainly wasn’t all the wood he’d need, but he was well underway to keeping his family warm next winter.

In any case there was nothing more he could do in the woods. The sled was full and the sun was getting low in the sky — it was time to tow the wood home, his least favourite part of the chore.

Even though the ponds were frozen and the trip was much shorter it was still liable to be a challenge. He had to cross frozen bogs and keeping the sled clear of fallen trees, frozen stumps and deep gullies required constant vigilance. The darker it got, the more difficult the journey would get.

More than once he’d gotten stuck and he didn’t want it to happen again.

Peter reached down to the campfire and lifted his kettle. The stick holding it above the coals fell into the fire. It was a bad omen — this is going to be a wonderful trip home, he sighed.

He kicked snow over the remains of the campfire and with a quiet hiss, the last embers faded away.

The woods seemed oddly still. They had all afternoon, come to think of it.

He hadn’t seen a single crow or grey jay in hours. That was strange, Peter thought, he couldn’t remember having tea in the woods without at least one jay brazenly trying to join the meal.

He didn’t give it much thought until he heard it; from somewhere just beyond the tree line came a sound.

It was a deep, low growl.

Peter froze; he’d never heard anything like it. Whatever it was it sounded sinister.

No wonder the birds had been keeping their distance. There was some terrible predator — a huge animal by the sound of it — lurking in the trees.

He couldn’t imagine what kind of animal made the sound. It was nothing like a wolf or bear.

Again came the growl.

The hair stood up on the back of his neck. Whatever it was sounded very close.

He didn’t dare move.

Peter gazed into the trees. In the fading light it was difficult to see anything.

In every shadow he expected to spot the glint of eye, or catch glimpse of movement, but he saw nothing.

His heart was racing.

Then there was another growl, this time from behind him.

He’d never been afraid in the woods but now they seemed dark and dangerous. It was as if everything was holding its breath, as if it whole forest was caught in the gaze of a hungry predator, a predator that seemed to be circling closer.

Everything in Peter’s being told him he had to get out of the woods.

He dropped the kettle and, as fast as he could, he released Lady from the sled — this was no time to worry about firewood.

He had go. He had to leave this place.

He grabbed his hatchet and they were off. Through the woods they raced, man and horse.

No matter how far they travelled or how fast they moved, they kept hearing the growl. Sometimes it seemed to come from the left, other times from the right.

Whatever this creature was, it was fast and it was chasing him. Through the trees, across the ponds — it was always there.

He knew, if he were going to survive, he had to make it back to town. There would be help there.

Then, suddenly, he burst free of the trees — he was almost home. If he could just make it across the mesh, he’d be there.

Faster and faster, he urged Lady onward until the familiar little cove began to unfold around them.

Still, the sickening growling kept its pace but always just out of sight. Was he losing his mind? How could this thing have run circles around him and still stayed out of sight. It made no sense.

Ahead of him on the path, Peter could just make out the silhouette of a man — it was his cousin David. Peter watched as he burst into the shed only to return, seconds later, holding a bird gun. He put it to his shoulder, pointed to the left, then swung to the right.

As Peter drew closer, David brought his aim to rest on Lady.

Suddenly recognizing Peter, he lowered the gun.

“Where is it?” he hissed, his eyes darting back and forth, “Where’s the beast?”

“I didn’t see it,” Peter panted, “it followed me from the woods but I couldn’t see it.”

David shook his head, “Must be more than one then; it’s been here this last hour.”

“What is it,” asked Peter, “I’ve never heard the like.”

“I don’t know, but there’s not a soul in the cove who hasn’t said a prayer since it started,” David began.

“Mother swore there was a bear up under the house. She thought it was trying to make a den there. She had father go after it, but when he looked, there was nothing there.

“James Porter figured it was a polar bear, down by the shore. He took his gun, said he was going to shoot it,” David panted.

“He followed the sound and… there was nothing. No bear, just nothing. He came right to the edge of the cliff, said the whole place seemed roar at him. Said he’d never seen the like of it.

“It’s bad Peter,” David swallowed hard, “they’re saying it might be the end of the world.”

As if on cue, another thunderous growl ripped through the dusk.

The two men parted, each for their homes.

Peter found his wife and two children waiting in the kitchen. They greeted him as though they’d never expected to see him alive again. He set down the hatchet — for the first time since leaving the woods — and hugged them warmly.

Together they huddled in the kitchen while just outside the door, just beyond the walls and right under the floorboards The Thunder Growl roared.

Peter kept the hatchet on the table in front of him. With every thunderous blast the oil lamp flickered, painting shadows across the wall. It looked as if the strange being were closing in on them; as if it were trying to extinguish the light.

Finally dawn came.

The roars continued unabated, as much a mystery in the morning light as they had been in the darkness. There were no strange footprints and no sign of an animal at all.

Then at noon, as suddenly as it had started, the Thunder Growl stopped. The strange sound was never heard in Bird Island Cove again.

The source remains a mystery to this day.

Deconstructing the Thunder Growl

Most of what is known about The Thunder Growl comes from an account by Rev. Philip Tocque who wrote about it in his 1846 book Wandering Thoughts. He didn’t witness the event but learned of it during his time in the Bonavista and Elliston areas. His informants told him it occurred about fifteen years prior, suggesting the event happened in the early 1830s.

Tocque wrote:

About 15 years ago, in the winter season, a very singular and most extraordinary sound was heard in the neighbourhood of Bonavista. It commenced about three o’clock in the afternoon and lasted until the next day about noon. The men at Bird Island Cove were going about nearly all night, some with loaded guns, some with hatchets, and others with whatever weapon they could command. The sound is described as resembling distant thunder. It has also been compared to the growl of a bear, the bellowing of a cow, &c, conveying a deep sepulchral tone. What is most strange and unaccountable is that it appeared alongside of everybody, although at the time some were at a distance from each other of from one to five miles. Men hauling wood at the time thought the sound came out of the ground immediately under the slide or team, and, in, some instances, were so alarmed as to leave the wood behind. Several females thought a bear had got into their chambers, and ran terrified from their dwellings.

Nobody knows the source of The Thunder Growl. The grinding of offshore ice has been discounted because, apparently, there was no ice at the time. Prevailing thoughts include unusual atmospheric disturbances or something geologic.

Tocque writes that two days after ‘The Growl’ the community experienced “one of the heaviest seas ever known.”

Was it related? Maybe.

Regardless, the night of The Thunder Growl left a mark on the people of the area.

In the book More Than 50% Hilda Chaulk Murray, describes an explosive growth in Methodism in the Elliston area in the 1820s. She suggests that fear of The Growl helped to fuel that (obviously she places The Growl as having visited pre-1830).

“People were terrified,” Chaulk Murray writes, “It’s not unlikely that many sought comfort in the Evangelism of the early Methodists.”

I don’t know.

Who’s to say what comforts you seek… when the night starts to growl.