Paddy Kelly and the Christmas Cat
Newfoundland has its share of strange Christmas stories — but not too many involve hand-to-hand combat with a supernatural house cat.
There’s only one I can think of, and it comes from the shores of Bonavista Bay. In this tale one late night traveller finds out that not every creature stirring on Christmas Eve comes bearing gifts; some come looking for a fight.
Paddy Kelly & the Christmas Cat
In Bonavista Bay, the winter nights are long and cold — perhaps never more so than at Christmas, when the sun is fleeting, the world is still, and strange things are said to stir.
It was on such a night in 1726 — on Christmas Eve, we are told — that Paddy Kelly set out from King’s Cove, bound for his home in Keels.
It was late.
The snow lay deep, his boots crunched steadily as he made his way along the narrow, winding road.
He should have been home hours ago, but one end-of-work drink had turned into two, and two into four. Now he could barely stand straight without leaning on his favourite dogberry walking stick. It took all his focus to keep from drifting off the path.
Above him, a near-full moon lit the snowdrifts with a pale white glow. On either side, dark spruce trees pressed in close, their branches heavy with snow.
The air was motionless. It was almost too quiet.
Paddy extended his stick and tapped a thick spruce trunk. Snow came cascading down, some of it spilling over his head.
“Not smart, Paddy,” he chuckled to himself as he brushed the snow from his old clothes.
That was when he heard it — a faint sound behind him. It sounded like someone else was on the trail; like maybe someone was following him.
It was unlikely — who else would be on this lonely stretch of road on Christmas Eve?
He stopped.
Nothing. The woods were completely silent.
He held his breath and waited. Still nothing.
Perhaps it had only been the echo of his stick against the tree. Or the creak of an ice-laden branch. Maybe it was the long night — or the jug of rum — playing tricks.
He sighed.
As he started walking, the sound returned.
Soon it began to resemble footsteps, crunching softly in the snow, keeping time with his own. When he moved, they moved. When he stopped, they stopped.
He turned and peered down the trail, leaning heavily on his stick. There was nothing behind him but snow and empty road.
“A fox,” he wondered, “or maybe a hare?”
He went on — and once again the mysterious footsteps followed.
A cold prickling crept up the back of his neck. It felt, for all the world, like he was being watched. As if something behind him, something invisible were stalking him.
He glanced behind, and this time he saw it.
Just for a moment — two sharp points of light, low in the trees, glinted in the darkness.
Eyes.
And unless he was mistaken, they belonged to a cat.
But the colour was wrong.
They glowed red in the moonlight.
In the darkness he could barely make out the animal’s shape. It looked as though it were crouched at the edge of the woods. He’s barely glimpsed it before Its tail flicked and it slipped into the shadows.
“Just some stray,” he scoffed.
Still, having seen the animal; knowing it was a cat brought no comfort.
There was something in the way it had watched him — something in colour of those eyes — that set his nerves on edge.
He quickened his pace.
He could still hear it, moving through the frozen goowiddy at the base of the trees. It seemed closer now and somehow heavier; iIts steps crunching louder, as if it were sinking deeper into the snow.
It didn't sound like the lithe movements of a housecat, it sounded, disturbingly, like something walking on two feet.
Paddy broke into a run, boots slipping as he pushed through the drifts — he wanted as much distance between himself and this cat as possible, but the animal kept pace.
He glanced over his shoulder. It bounded between the tree trunks, then burst into a clearing.
In the moonlight he saw it clearly. What once looked like a stray house cat was now far larger — too big for any pet, too big even for a lynx. Its fur was coal black from nose to tail, save for a snow-white patch on its chest.
Its eyes seemed to be burning brighter than before.
It couldn’t be; this animal couldn’t be real.
He was tired, that was all. And drunk. Too many Christmas Eve sociables. Too many turns at the jug.
This was no cat. It was just a rum-soaked trick of the night. It had to be.
He fixed his eyes on the road ahead and pressed on, fear fuelling every step.
And still, in the trees, the creature was keeping pace.
Old stories stirred in his memory — tales of things that followed travellers through the winter woods.
His heart hammered louder and louder, the blood rushed in his ears.
Then, near St. Croix, where the road forked and curved, the footsteps fell silent.
He turned.
Nothing. No movement. No eyes.
He had barely taken another step when he saw it — crouched on the path ahead, it had gotten ahead of him, and now it was blocking the road.
Its black fur bristled. Its eyes blazed. White clouds of breath spilled from its mouth and curled into the cold air.
It looked furious.
And then — it began to grow.
Before Paddy’s eyes, its shoulders broadened, its frame thickening with every breath. From the size of a cat, to a dog, to a wolf — until it stood as large as a foal.
But no foal ever looked so fierce.
The beast arched its back, fur standing on end.
Paddy swallowed hard. His fingers tightened around his walking stick —it was his only defence — though the slender dogberry pole suddenly felt pitifully light.
“Go on now, cat,” he whispered, “shoo!”
The animal answered with a sound no cat should ever make — something half hiss and half derisive laugh.
And then it lunged.
Its weight knocked Paddy flat on his back. He swung wildly, the stick thudding against flesh. The creature shrieked and struck back with its powerful paws.
Round and round they struggled, man and beast.
With every blow Paddy landed, the creature grew wilder — and then he noticed it. Each strike seemed to sap some of its power, it almost seemed as if it were getting smaller.
At first the change was slight. Then unmistakable.
He fought on, striking again and again. The beast shrank from foal to wolf, from wolf to dog. Before long it was no bigger than a young crackie.
Then with one final whack, the dark, fire-eyed spirit collapsed into the snow — no larger than a barn kitten. The fierce red glow in its eyes had faded to the colour of a dying ember.
Paddy didn’t wait to see if it would rise again. He ran; ran until the houses of Keels surrounded him.
Rijksmuseum, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons
He burst into his neighbour’s lamplit kitchen, a crowd of men were gathered around the table.
“What’s gotten into you, Paddy?” they cried.
And so he told them — the footsteps, the eyes, the fight on the road.
They answered with laughter.
“The only dark spirit you met tonight,” one neighbour chuckled, “came out of a bottle. Too much rum again, Paddy. Too much”
But Paddy swore it was true.
By morning, he convinced a few men to walk back with him to the bend in the road near St. Croix.
A fresh layer of snow had hidden any tracks.
But there, amid the icy white, sat a strange, steaming lump of black froth — no bigger than a jug.
No one could explain it. No one tried.
And for generations afterward, people in Keels could point to the very spot where Paddy Kelly met something on Christmas Eve — something that followed him through the dark.
And whether it was some unearthly creature, or just the drink playing tricks on a tired man — well, that depends who’s telling the story.
Either way, folks agreed: if you’re walking the shores of Bonavista Bay on a winter night, it’s best carry you a good stick — and mind the spirits, bottled or otherwise.
Notes
The inspiration for this story came from a short piece in the 1926 Christmas edition of the Trinitarian — I figured, after 99 years, the cat deserved to live out another of its nine lives.
I’ve been to King’s Cove and Keels many times but I didn’t know where St. Croix was. A story in the text The Devine Brothers of King’s Cove told me it was to the east, or maybe the eastern part of, Keels. (Update: I’ve found a map that seems to confirm that.)
The book relates an incident between the people of Keels and St. Croix regarding the location of their school. Not being able to come to a satisfactory resolution, they decided the best thing to do was saw the building in half, allowing each party to put their piece of the school in the place they thought best.
I don’t know.
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Bonavista South, The Trinitarian, December 21, 1926
The Devine Brothers of King’s Cove, J.W. McGrath
The Tangled Lore of Dogberries, Product of Newfoundland
