Picture this:

It’s Tibb’s Eve in Trinity, NL — a place where the houses look like they’re straight out of a postcard, traditions are honoured and everyone’s gathering at Rocky’s Bar for a laugh.

But Clara—our main character—finds herself in a very different kind of gathering. She stumbles upon a house that’s supposed to be empty, glowing with light and warmth. And inside? A group of… well, let’s call them strangers with stories to tell.

Join me for a tale of friendship, memory, and a little bit of magic — the kind that only comes to life on Tibb’s Eve.

Coming Home For Tibb’s Eve

It was December 23rd, and the frosty night air was sharp with the scent of sea and spruce.

Clara had almost forgotten what Newfoundland winters were like. Not the cold — she remembered that well enough — but the smell, a mix of salt and evergreen, caught her off guard. It was something she’d either forgotten or never truly appreciated as a child.

But home was as beautiful as ever. There was something about how a blanket of snow transformed Trinity—made it feel cozy, almost. The colourful wooden houses tucked into the hills formed a patchwork quilt, with everything from The Nuddick to Hog’s Nose wrapped in a pristine white coverlet. It was easy to see why tourists adored the place.

She’d only been away for two years, but it was long enough for her to feel like a visitor now, an outsider trying to find her place.

The houses stood just as they always had. In the distance, the light at Fort Point sent a silvery thread into the frosty air, cutting through the dark. It was all so familiar, yet Clara found herself hesitating outside Rocky’s — the bar where half the town gathered on Tibb’s Eve — unsure if she should go in. Truthfully, she wasn’t even sure why she had come out tonight. Her friends had kept in touch when she first left for university, their messages warm and full of news. But over time, those conversations had grown shorter and less frequent.

What could she even say to them now? That she missed them?

Truth is, she wasn’t sure she belonged to this place anymore.

She sighed and walked past the bar. It was still early — only 8 pm — there was plenty of time for another stroll through town. Maybe by the time she circled back, she’d have it figured out.

She’d just turned onto Fleet Street when something caught her eye: a light flickering in the house at the end of the lane. She paused. The house, a historic Trinity home with white clapboard siding and bright red trim, was usually boarded up for the winter. It was mostly rented out to tourists in the summer, those looking to “get away from it all.” But now, a warm golden glow spilled from its windows. Stranger still, the side door was ajar, and a low snowdrift stretched inside, as though the house itself were drawing the winter in.

Even at Christmas, when the bight was full of people returning to be with family, everyone in Trinity still knew everyone else. It was a community in the truest sense — people helped each other.

Clara hadn’t been away so long that she could ignore something clearly amiss. She felt compelled to check.

“Hello?” she called softly, stepping over the threshold.

The smell hit her first: woodsmoke mingling with something sweet, like molasses. She followed it to a small sitting room, where three elderly people were gathered around a roaring fire. They turned as she entered, their faces lighting up as if they’d been expecting her.

“Well, there you are!” the woman said warmly, her voice rich with welcome. She wore a long woolen dress that looked like it belonged in an old photograph. Beside her, a man with a snowy white beard and a twinkle in his eye smiled broadly, while another man, his waistcoat snug over his broad chest, nodded in greeting.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” Clara stammered, suddenly self-conscious.

Listen to this story on the Strange Truths & Tall Tales podcast.

“Nonsense!” said the bearded man, gesturing to a worn armchair. “Come sit, m’dear. It’s Tibb’s Eve—a night for good spirits and fine fun.”

Clara hesitated but sat down. There was something unusual about the trio, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. They were complete unfamiliar but their smiles were kind, and their laughter infectious.

She sat tentatively.

“Do you know the story of Saint Tib?” the woman asked, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

Clara shook her head. “I thought there wasn’t really a Saint Tib.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” the other man said with a chuckle. “Saint Tib never existed, but that doesn’t stop folks from celebrating. It’s a night for the impossible, for stepping outside of time.”

“Or finding old friends in new places,” the woman added, raising a teacup in a toast.

Her smile was so genuine, so inviting that Clara felt immediately at ease. She relaxed into the chair and the trio resumed their conversation. They were telling stories of Christmases past, together their words weaved a vivid tapestry that seemed to pull her into another time.

“Ah, skating on the arm from Goose Cove right to Trinity,” the bearded man began, his voice carrying the rhythm of a well-worn tale. “You could do it back then, you know. Everything froze solid in those winters. The ice stretched out before us like a sheet of glass. You could see the rocks and seaweed below, even the occasional fish in the shallows.”

His eyes twinkled as he leaned forward, his hands resting on his knees. “We’d lace up our skates by the edge of the arm, fingers fumbling with stiff leather laces, the cold already nipping at our noses. The first push off the shore was always a thrill—the ice was so smooth it felt like you were flying. We’d race each other, weaving and dodging like we were chasing the wind itself.”

The woman in the wool dress nodded, a nostalgic smile curling her lips. “The cold never seemed to bother us much then, did it? Not when we had the whole arm to ourselves. Oh, the joy of it, carving figure-eights, practicing spins—even if most of us ended up flat on our backs more often than not!”

The bearded man chuckled, the sound warm and rich. “And when our toes went numb, we’d head for the fire someone always had going on the shore. There’d be a pile of boughs crackling away, and spitting sparks into the sky. We’d get in as close as we could close — and didn’t we smell like smoke by the time we got home. Course we hardly noticed it then. Everyone smelled like smoke.”

“Most times, if someone had a fire going, there was a kettle for tea. And, when we were older, maybe even a flask of something stronger. It was practically medicinal, of course,” he smiled, “it warmed us from the inside out.”

He paused, his eyes far away as if he could see the scene unfolding all over again. “One year, I remember it started snowing while we were out there —big, lazy flakes, the kind that drifted down like they had all the time in the world. Certainly, we thought we did too.” he glanced to ward the woman beside him.

“The snow caught in our hair and on our lashes, clinging to our scarves. The world went quiet, like the snow muffled everything but the sound of our skates scraping the ice.”

The second man, who had been listening quietly, spoke up. “You could hear the ice, though. Remember that sound? Like it was singing—low, deep groans and cracks as the cold worked its way through.”

The bearded man nodded, “It almost felt alive, didn’t it? Like the ice was carrying us across its back. It felt like another world. We just skated, laughed, and soaked it all in.”

The woman sighed softly. “That was the beauty of it, wasn’t it? We didn’t need anything fancy—just the ice, the fire, and each other. It’s funny how those simple moments stick with you, isn’t it? All the grand things in life fade, but the feeling of gliding under a snowy sky with friends — well, that’s the kind of memory that never leaves.”

Clara sat enraptured, the picture they painted pulled her into the memory. The Trinity they knew, the community that existed long before her birth, was not the place she knew. Never in her life could she remember the arm freezing, still she felt, somehow, it was a story understood. She could almost hear the scrape of skates, smell the wood smoke, and see the snowflakes dancing in the firelight. It wasn’t just their memory—it was a piece of her, too.

The woman nodded, her eyes lighting up with the spark of memory. “And the mummers! Oh, what a time that was. There’s nothing like it now, nothing that comes close. You’d dress up in whatever you could find—something ridiculous, the more absurd, the better. Flour sacks with eye holes cut out, old curtains tied like capes, men stuffed into their wives’ dresses, and women stomping about in over-sized rubber boots. I remember once, someone tied a pillow around their belly and limped all night, like he had arthritis—it had us laughing till our sides ached.”

She leaned forward, her hands clasped together as she fell deeper into her tale. “The point was to be unrecognizable. That was half the fun—no one was supposed to know who you were, though they’d guess all the same. You’d knock on a door, and before they’d even open it, you’d be trying not to laugh.”

The second man chuckled, his shoulders shaking. “And if they guessed who you were too quick, you’d put on a voice—squeaky or gruff—or do a little jig to throw them off the scent. Some folks were masters at it, could fool even their own family.”

“And once you were inside,” the woman continued, “it was like stepping into another world; a world of Christmas! The kitchen would be warm and bright, the stove going full tilt, and the smell of hot tea and maybe even a bit of Christmas cake, perhaps, if you were lucky there was a plate of jam tarts or raisin buns on the table. And of course, someone always had a drop of something stronger to pass around. They always said, the people in Trinity made the best blueberry wine.”

Her voice grew animated, her hands painting the scene in the air. “The best part, though, was the music. There was always music. Someone would pull out a fiddle or an accordion, and before long, the whole kitchen would be clapping along. The beat of a set of spoons, boots stomping on the wooden floor—it was a racket, but the best kind of racket. And the singing! Everyone knew the old songs, and if you didn’t, well, you learned fast.”

She leaned forward, her voice softening. “But the most magical nights were the ones when they did their mummer’s play.”

The bearded man grinned. “Oh, I remember. Someone always claimed to know the verses, but half the time they made them up. You just stepped up and did your best. There’d be the doctor, the old woman, and of course, the noble Saint George.”

“Here comes I, Beelzebub, and on my shoulder carries my club,” recited woman said, raising her hands with a flourish. “and in my hand a three-penny pan; ain’t I a smart, jolly old man?’”

The second man chuckled, his eyes twinkling. “And the crowd would cheer like it was real, better than Shakespeare, I’d say. Half the fun was the mistakes. It was pure magic—everyone caught up in the moment.”

The woman nodded, her smile softening. “That’s what made it special, wasn’t it? The play, the music, the laughter—it brought us together. By the end of the night, you couldn’t tell if you were warmed by the fire or by the company. When you stumbled home it felt like you carried a little piece of something that would keep you warm through the rest of winter.”

Clara was spellbound, the scene so vivid she could almost hear the stomping feet and feel the warmth of the kitchen. The woman’s words lingered in her mind, filling her with a sense of something she couldn’t quite name— some sort of yearning.

The memories seemed to be flooding back to the trio.

“And when we were small,” the woman continued, “the Christmas concerts were the highlight of the season. Back then, everything revolved around the one-room schoolhouse. It wasn’t just a place for lessons — it was a sort of the heart of the community. And come December, that little building transformed into something magical.”

The second man nodded, a smile tugging at his lips. “The whole community would pitch in. The men would hang garlands of spruce boughs around the room, and the women would bring great pots of soup and fresh bread. You could smell it before you even stepped inside.”

The woman’s eyes twinkled. “And the children, oh, they’d be buzzing with excitement. We’d practice for weeks beforehand. The teacher taught us the carols and we sang them the best we could —off-key, more often than not, but no one minded. There’d be little skits too—nothing fancy, just whatever we could manage.

“One year,” John interjected, “Me and another boy dressed up as old fishermen and pretended to have a heated argument about the best way to salt cod. The whole place was in stitches, even the minister!”

The woman laughed, shaking her head. “After the concert, the real fun began. The benches would be pushed back, and everyone would gather for the soup supper. There’d be giant pots of pea soup and and warm bread slathered with butter, and cups of tea poured endlessly. People would drift from table to table, chatting and laughing, catching up on all the news. It was the kind of evening where you felt like you belonged, no matter who you were.”

The woman sighed, a faraway look in her eyes. “I remember one year, the snow was falling thick outside, and the lantern light made it look like the world was glowing. We stayed late into the night, singing and dancing, until the windows were fogged up and the soup pots were scraped clean. By the time we left, the snow was deep enough to bury your boots, but no one minded. We walked home together, lanterns swinging, our voices echoing across the arm.”

She paused, her voice barely above a whisper now. “It felt like the world was smaller, kinder; like no matter what came next, we had each other.”

The room fell quiet for a moment. Then the woman leaned toward Clara, her gaze soft but serious. “You see, my dear,” she said, “it’s not the skating or the music or the food that makes a Christmas memory last. It’s the people—the ones who laugh with you, cry with you, and hold you close. Friendships, real ones, aren’t bound by time or place. They stretch as far as you’re willing to reach… even if you have to bend the rules to keep them.”

The bearded man smiled, his expression wistful. “And sometimes, when life gets in the way, you just need a little nudge to remember that. Even if that nudge comes from somewhere… unexpected.”

Clara felt a strange shudder run through her, but it wasn’t fear — it was warmth, gratitude, and a sense of understanding she hadn’t realized she’d been missing. Hours seemed to pass in the blink of an eye, the stories wrapping around her like a familiar tune. She felt lighter, as though the weight of her worries had been left outside in the snow.

Reluctantly, she stood to leave. Everything about the room — though it was like nowhere she’d ever been — felt like home .

She paused at the doorway, looking back at the three elderly figures, their faces glowing in the firelight. “Thank you, you don’t know how much I needed this,” Clara paused, “I’m not sure I knew either!”

The woman in the wool dress smiled, her eyes twinkling. “That’s the beauty of a night like this, my dear. It’s a time for finding what you didn’t even know you’d lost.”

Clara hesitated before stepping closer. “Can I come back? Tomorrow, maybe? I’d love to hear more of your stories.”

The bearded man chuckled, his laughter as warm as the fire. “Ah, we’d love that too. But, you see, we’re not here most nights.”

The second man leaned forward with a knowing grin. “We’re only here on Tibb’s Eve—a night out of time.”

The woman smiled gently. “It’s a night that wasn’t supposed to exist, but here in Newfoundland, it found its place—just before Christmas.”

The bearded man nodded, his eyes twinkling. “And leave it to Newfoundlanders to get it right. They turned a night that shouldn’t be, into one for sharing a drink with old friends.”

He glanced at his companions and added, “We liked that idea too. So, we decided to join in. A night like this—where ‘never’ becomes now—is the only time we can; when Tibb’s Eve ends, so do we.”

The realization dawned on Clara slowly, like the first rays of sunlight creeping over a winter horizon.

The bearded man gave her a wink. “Let’s just say we’ve been a part of Trinity a long time, long before tourists and craft stores.”

It all made sense now, these weren’t just kind strangers. They were something more — they were the echos of tradition, and the soul of home.

The woman stood, her movements graceful and deliberate. “Hold onto your stories, Clara,” she said softly. “And hold onto the people who make them with you. That’s what lasts, even when the days run out.”

Clara nodded, a tear running down her cheek.

“And don’t forget—your friends are waiting,” the bearded man said. “Go to them. That’s where you belong — tell your stories and, more importantly, make new ones.”

With one last smile, Clara turned and stepped outside.

When she glanced back, the house was dark, the side door shut tight. It looked as it did every other winter —empty, boarded-up and waiting.

But Clara no longer felt the need to wait. She checked her watch—it was still 8pm. No time had passed; her friends were still at Rocky’s.

Her worries felt foolish now.

Wherever life took her, Clara knew a part of her would always stay here. As long as friends gathered and stories were shared, she would find her place in the warmth of laughter and memory, on a piece of rocky coastline somewhere between the spruce and the sea.