the bell island boom Patricia Mary O'Neill

the bell island boom

patricia mary o'neill

What I’m about to tell you is so outlandish, so preposterous, you will think I’m putting you on, or that I’ve lost my mind, but I swear, neither is true.

On the afternoon of April 2, 1978, on the part of Bell Island known as Bickfordville, there was an ear-piercing blast followed by blinding orbs of light that circled the area for several seconds.

Afterwards, people had unexplained injuries, animals were found dead, and property was damaged. To this day, no one seems to know what happened there, or, if they do know, they are not telling the truth about it. But I know, and now I’m telling.

I remember it was a hot muggy afternoon that July 22 when I returned to the island, three months after the event. Lightning lit the distant sky as dark clouds amassed offshore. I told my father about my intention to visit the site.

“Stay away, Patsy,” he warned. “No good can come from going there.”

“Dad, don’t be so silly,” I scoffed. “I want to see it for myself, maybe take a few photos, then I’ll be right back.” My father just shook his head and walked out of the room.

Stories from childhood came to mind about fairies and strange encounters on the road, and bizarre, bloodcurdling tales of ghostly apparitions in the woods, all of which became part of local lore. As I grew older, and became less gullible, it became clear those stories were intended to keep children in line.

When I arrived at the site, it was difficult to see evidence of anything unusual as summer yielded thick grass etched in clover. Further along though, peculiar indentations, which emitted a faint smoky odour, appeared. I squatted for a closer look and touched the scorched earth. Suddenly, I felt a terrible pain in my head. It was like my eyes were on fire. My tongue seemed to swell. I had trouble breathing, and the pressure inside my head was so intense, I thought my head would explode. All I could think was I’m going to die. I fell to the ground and passed out.

When I woke, it was pitch black. A dim blue glow caught my eye. I reached for what turned out to be my watch. The glass was shattered, and pieces were missing. The second hand spun erratically and came off when I touched it, but the mechanism still turned.

Slowly, I got to my feet and staggered to a nearby stump. Everything hurt. I stayed there for several minutes until my vision cleared.

I walked to where I parked but my car was gone. I reached into my pocket and what I pulled out was a glob of metal and plastic melted together, my car keys.

Because I was disoriented and in pain, it took more than three hours to walk the five or so miles back to the house. When I arrived, the door was locked. I knocked. No answer. Then I banged on it. A bedroom light came on overhead and the window squeaked open.

“Who is it?” my father whispered.

“It’s me, Dad, Patsy. Why’s the door locked?” There was no reply. I heard his footsteps heavy on the stairs. The door opened. He stood there, pale, wide-mouthed, a look of shock on his face.

“What?” I said, taken aback by his appearance. He looked as though he’d aged ten years since I saw him earlier. He grabbed hold of me and squeezed tightly.

“Patsy, you’re alive. Oh my God girl, where have you been?” He released me. “We didn’t know what happened to you.”

“I’m not sure either,” I said as I walked past him into the

living room and dropped onto the sofa. “Someone stole my bloody car. I feel like I’ve had the crap beaten out of me. I had to walk all the way here.” I was hurting, and I was angry.

“Your car is in the back yard,” he said. There was a peculiar look on his face. What was going on, I thought.

“How did it get there?”

That’s when my father told me I had been missing thirty-seven days. My car had been reported abandoned. The police searched the island but could find no trace of me nor had anyone seen me get on the ferry and leave the island.

None of what he was telling me made sense. I couldn’t think straight. I was exhausted. All I wanted was a hot shower, but all I could manage was to haul myself up the stairs, fall into bed and surrender to sleep.

That night was the beginning of my hellish nightmares.

I dreamt I was held in place, suspended, in an upright position, bound somehow by my ankles, wrists, waist and shoulders. The only part of my body I could move were my eyes. When I lowered them, I could see a device covering my nose and mouth. Something ran along my tongue and down into my throat. I struggled to dislodge it but gagged instead.

I closed my eyes for a minute or two to calm myself and breathed deeply against the rising hysteria. This is not real, I kept repeating over and over in my mind.

When I opened my eyes, I scanned my surroundings to orient myself but could not determine the depth or the dimensions of the space. My vision was obscured by a thick, swirling haze. It was hot but inside I was chilled, and terrified

A noise, like the drone of a fan, was all around me. A stench emanated from the haze. I felt sick to my stomach.

The noise grew louder as something moved towards me. I could not determine what I was looking at; I had never seen anything like it before. Slowly it moved closer. As it neared, I became more terrified.

What was happening? What was this place, and what was this, this thing? I felt helpless. I wanted to scream, but the effort was beyond me. Though I could not move my body, I trembled.

The creature was hideous. Its eyes drooped in sockets of syrupy slime. The flesh at its apex was flaccid and pocked, as was its entire body. Tube-like projections traversed its length and each of them quivered.

The noise I heard was coming from them. In the opening at its centre was a slanted, squarish, oozing configuration from which tentacle-like appendages, muddy grey in colour, waved back and forth like underwater sea plants.

A tentacle touched my abdomen, the pain was excruciating. I closed my eyes and wanted to die. It touched me again and I passed out.

When I came to, more creatures surrounded me. The air was fetid and damp. The droning noise was amplified. The creatures seemed agitated. Again, I was touched, and again I passed out.

This seemed to go on forever, until finally, there was nothing. I lingered in this nothingness for a very long time. When I finally came to, I screamed, and this time my scream had sound.

“Help me, help me, please...”

Someone was holding me down and calling my name. I opened my eyes expecting to see my father, but instead I looked into the eyes of a stranger.

“It’s okay, calm down, Patricia, you’re safe,” he said.

“Where am I? How did I get here? Who are you?” My arms and legs were in restraints. “What’s going on?”

“It’s okay, you’re safe. The restraints are for your protection.”

I yanked at them.

“Please be calm. I’m Dr. Wilmot,” he replied. “You’re in hospital, at the Health Science Centre in St. John’s. You’ve been…”

A man in a military uniform cut him off and ordered him out of the room.

“Tell me what’s going on,” I screamed. Nothing was making sense. The doctor looked at me for several seconds but didn’t say a word. He shook his head, almost apologetically, turned and walked out of the room.

“No, don’t go, please…” I struggled against the restraints and screamed, out of fear and frustration. Minutes later, the door opened. A nurse walked in.

“For God’s sake, tell me what’s going on,” I pleaded. She ignored my pleas, emptied a needle into my left arm and left. I lost consciousness soon after.

The following day, still drowsy, I was flown to Ottawa and quarantined at the National Defence Medical Centre where I remained, against my will, for the next several months, undergoing extensive physical and psychological testing. I was told I had been struck by lightning, but no one would tell me why I was at a military hospital.

I overheard one of the doctors say some of my body parts were missing—my spleen, appendix, uterus, fallopian tubes, part of my liver, and a section of my gall bladder.

Multiple sites on my torso showed evidence of recent incisions, but today there isn’t a blemish, let alone a scar.

I was asked a myriad of questions about what I remembered from those missing days. I told them the truth, that I had no memory of any of it. I did not, however, tell them about my nightmares.

Because of pressure from my family and the provincial government, I was finally released. I returned to Newfoundland but never stayed on Bell Island more than a few hours, just long enough to visit my father. Fear kept me well away from Bickfordville.

Eventually, I moved west, never telling anyone about my experience. I remained convinced my dreams revealed what had really taken place during those thirty-seven missing days; I had been abducted by aliens and used as some kind of guinea pig for their experiments.

For a few years, when I doubted it ever happened, I wondered if I must have had some kind of mental breakdown. Then an anonymous letter showed up and pointed me to an online group known as Encountered, a community of people who have had similar experiences. I no longer doubt myself.

But skeptics are not so easily convinced, especially since I can’t show them any physical evidence to back up my claims. You see, every organ that was removed eventually grew back. I wouldn’t believe me either. But the fact remains, it happened.

Chances are, someone you know has gone through something similar and they’re not speaking about it because they know they won’t be believed, or maybe they’re afraid of worse repercussions, like being abducted again, but this time by their own government.

The truth is, none of us know what’s out there, lurking in the darkness beyond the night sky or in the depths of the oceans, watching, waiting. For what? Who can say?

What I do know is this, they’re out there, biding their time.