St. Paul’s, nestled on the Great Northern Peninsula of Newfoundland, has long been a place of stories — some well-remembered, and some only carried on the breeze.

According to the history books, it all began with a solitary man — Elias Gifford, a trapper who ventured into St. Paul’s Bay and lived alone, hunting the land. For a time, he was the only soul to inhabit the sandy point jutting into the bay, his solitude broken only when others arrived, drawn by the promise of fish and lobster. In the early 1880s, a Halifax firm set up a lobster factory on the point, and St. Paul’s began to grow. Over time, however, the community shifted away from the point, settling closer to the coast where there was more space and better land.

But this quiet corner of Newfoundland, hidden deep within the shadows of Gros Morne National Park, has another story — one that doesn’t appear in the history books; one that is more likely to be told fireside on a stormy winter night.

It’s another story of why the community moved to the coast. Yes, they sought better land, but what most have long forgotten is the dark reason the land turned bad. It’s a tale of a family torn apart, of love lost, and a broken promise that came to haunt an entire settlement.

Old Martin of St. Paul’s

Once, St. Paul’s on Newfoundland’s west coast wasn’t the coastal settlement it is today. Instead, its people lived upriver, hidden away in the wilderness. Among them was Old Martin — a quiet, reserved man, well-liked by most. Few knew much about him, but whispers often floated through the village, hinting at a darker past. Some said he had once been a criminal, though no one knew for certain.

One year, as autumn’s chill deepened, Martin fell gravely ill. He refused all help, snapping at anyone who approached. Only young John Oates, a fearless neighbour, dared to intervene. “I don’t recall asking for your help, by,” Martin growled. But John stayed, tending the old man with a stubborn kindness, though Martin’s bitterness never softened.

Years before, Martin had lived with his wife and daughter, Mary. His wife had passed, and Mary, estranged after a bitter fight, had left for St. John’s where she worked ‘in service’.

Everyone in the settlement knew there was a romance between Mary and John—a relationship that had once seemed destined for happiness.

A Love Torn Apart

John and Mary had grown up together, inseparable as children and, later, as sweethearts. Their love had blossomed beside the low spruce trees by the water, where they would steal moments to talk and dream of a future together. But their fathers’ friendship, once strong, had soured. Martin accused John’s father of cheating him, and the Oates family returned the accusation. Bitter words were exchanged, and Mary, torn between loyalty to her father and her love for John, was caught in the middle.

The final blow came when Martin forbade Mary from seeing John. Though they tried to meet in secret, the tension grew unbearable. A fierce argument erupted one night between Mary and Martin, and she left the house in tears. Within days, she had taken work in St. John’s, leaving John behind with a broken heart.

Years passed, but John never stopped loving Mary. Though he buried his feelings, his connection to her lingered, unresolved. It was perhaps this love—and the hope that someday Mary would return — that compelled him to stay near Martin, even as the old man grew colder and more withdrawn.

A Warning Unheeded

By November, it was clear Martin’s end was near. In his final days, he summoned John’s father, a man he hadn’t spoken to in years. Their conversation was private, but whatever was said seemed to settle the years-old score. Oates promised to carry out Old Martin’s wishes to the best of his ability.

When Martin died a week later, he shared Martin’s last will and testament: He hoped his daughter, Mary, would marry young Oates. If that were to be the case, she could have his house and all his worldly possessions. If not, everything should be turned over to the parson, for the good of the church.

Furthermore, Martin wanted to be buried far away from the town, in his favourite spot on the coast, a little cove round the south head. He was emphatic about it. If his wish wasn’t fulfilled, he warned, he would never rest in peace; nor would the people of St. Paul’s.

Oates had good intentions. He wanted to honour Martin’s wishes but the weather had turned ferocious. Storms lashed the coast, making it impossible to reach the cove. Reluctantly, the villagers buried Martin in his garden. They said, they would make good on their promise in the spring, that they would remove his bones to the quiet cove when the weather improved.

Perhaps they believed it at first but it wasn’t long before their thoughts of Old Martin faded. By the time Christmas came, he was a distant memory.

It was the dogs in town who first noticed something was amiss. One old water dog became obsessed with the house, refusing to leave, spending hours howling at the garden, staring fixedly at the disturbed earth.

If the people of town noticed the strange behaviour, few gave it any serious thought; focusing instead on the festive season.

A Boxing Day Visitation

By Boxing Day, the village was alive with celebration. The Oates’ house was filled with music and laughter as the community gathered for a party. The warm glow of oil lamps lit the frost-covered windows, and the lively stomp of boots on the wooden floor kept time with the fiddler’s tune.

In the middle of the revelry, a small group of mummers arrived unannounced, their faces hidden behind strange, cotton drapes. Their exaggerated movements and sing-song voices delighted the crowd.

Then the fiddle screeched to a halt. There was a palpable shift in mood.

Outside, the dog was howling again. It wasn’t alone, it sounded as if every dog in town was joining in chorus. The wild, frantic cries silenced the room. The mummers froze mid-dance, their masks suddenly looked menacing in the stillness.

Oates cracked the door to investigate.

The moment it opened, the dogs burst inside, tails tucked low, their bodies trembling as they cowered beneath the tables and chairs. Whispers spread through the room. Some of the men exchanged uneasy glances, muttering about wolves, while others, determined to confront whatever danger loomed, grabbed weapons — hunting rifles, knives, even an iron poker — preparing to defend their homes.

Before they could move, there came a sharp, deliberate rap at the door. Steeling himself, Oates once again cracked the door. There was nobody there; No living soul, anyway. For a fleeting moment, a pale glow seemed to hover above the snow.

John hesitantly stepped outside.

The ghostly light now hovered near Old Martin’s abandoned house, drifting toward the ‘temporary’ grave.

A low, mournful voice echoed in the icy air:

“I can’t rest here. Oh, I can’t rest here.”

A Terrifying Winter

By morning, the village was blanketed in snow, but there were no tracks — nothing to explain the night’s events. The men, who had hoped for answers, now felt the heavy weight of dread settle deep in their bones. Old Martin’s spirit was restless. He had warned them, and now they were paying the price.

The haunting grew more intense.

Night after night, sharp, deliberate knocks rang out on doors and windows, always in threes. Children awoke screaming, claiming to see pale faces in the dark. Martin’s house glowed faintly, a flickering light in the window, but no one dared enter.

Low mournful cries pierced the night: “I can’t rest here!”

At gatherings, lamps would extinguish themselves, chairs would topple over, and a cold draft would fill the room, bringing with it the unmistakable scent of damp earth. As villagers drifted off to sleep, they were jolted awake by the feeling of icy fingers brushing their skin. In every shadow, Martin’s gaunt face seemed to flicker, watching.

The community descended into a quiet, helpless terror. He would not allow them to forget —

“I can’t rest here,” he whispered.

By spring, the villagers could take no more. Promise or not, they wanted nothing to do with Old Martin. Rather than dig up his cursed grave, they abandoned the settlement, fleeing to the coast.

Mary’s Return

Word of Martin’s death reached Mary in St. John’s. A sharp pang of guilt washed over her — guilt for the years of silence, the anger that had kept her from her father. The last time they had spoken, their words had been cruel, sharp, filled with regret. Now he was gone, and she was left with nothing but the weight of unspoken apologies. By spring, she could no longer ignore the pull to return to St. Paul’s.

When she arrived, she found John waiting. The years apart had done little to dull the connection between them. If anything, the grief of losing the old man, combined with the shared pain of their past, brought them together in a way nothing else could. They spent hours talking, trading memories of better times and the ache of lost love. The sorrow they shared reignited the passion that had once bloomed between them, before their fathers’ bitter feud had driven them apart. The walls between them crumbled, and by July, they were married — reunited by tragedy.

Neither she nor John could bring themselves to disturb Martin’s grave.

But as the days passed, a quiet unease settled over Mary. She began to hear it — the whispering on the wind, soft at first, but impossible to ignore: “I can’t rest here.”

The old community, all but abandoned, felt like a place of shadows. Mary couldn’t bear the thought of staying — even if her father’s old cabin was now hers. Soon John built them a house by the shore, far from the cursed land. It was meant to be a fresh start, a new beginning, away from the darkness of the past.

But the past does not let go so easily. Forgotten and left to rot at the old settlement, Martin’s grave was soon consumed by the wild.

To this day, when the wind howls through the trees, his voice rises with it—faint at first, then growing louder, filled with chilling desperation:

“I can’t rest here!”

And he hasn’t.

He waits still, a restless spirit bound to a forgotten grave outside St. Paul’s, lingering for over a century, waiting for a promise to be fulfilled.