Hurricane Milton left behind a mix of the good, the bad, and the ugly. The good? It further established Midnight Pass, giving hope for future restoration. The bad? The heartbreaking loss of beloved spots like Rod and Reel Pier on Anna Maria and Alvarez Restaurant in Palmetto. And the ugly? Many of us faced the devastation of seeing our homes destroyed and the daunting task of rebuilding from the ground up.
For those of us who stayed during the storm or evacuated to local friends or family, the weather we experienced felt straight out of a horror movie. It was the first direct hit we've faced since 1921, and the eerie howl of 120 mph winds tearing through homes, vehicles, and trees was truly terrifying. After living through such fear so recently, I decided to dedicate my second Halloween series article to the raw, real, and frightening experiences our community endured during hurricanes as documented in the book “The Edge of Wilderness” by Janet Snyder Matthews.
On a stormy October night in 1846, the Great Gale, the most powerful hurricane to hit the Caribbean in nearly 80 years, tore through Cuba before creeping toward Florida. By the time it reached the small settlement of Manatee, it wasn’t the full force of the storm, but it carried an eerie sense of doom. The wind howled, slamming into the newly constructed homes of early settlers.
Josiah and Mary Gates, Manatee’s first settlers, bolted their French doors overlooking the river. Strange seabirds flew erratically as if they were fleeing something otherworldly. Twice that night, the doors burst open, as if an invisible force demanded to enter. It was more than just a storm—it felt alive.
Nearby, sugar mill owner Pickney Craig’s sturdy home crumbled, forcing his family to hide under the dining room table. Even as they huddled, the winds seemed to shriek with unnatural intensity.
Elbridge and Louise Ware found no sanctuary in their home, which lifted off its foundation as the storm hit its peak. They fled to their detached kitchen, hidden beneath towering cedar trees. Louise, heavily pregnant, went into labor as the storm raged. With the winds howling like banshees, their midwife delivered a baby boy, Henry Ware—the first child born in the Manatee River settlement, his cries eerily mingling with the dying winds.
Others weren’t as lucky. Attorney Hector Braden attempted to cross the river on horseback, but his horse spooked, throwing him into the churning water. His body was found later, claimed by the storm. Some say his ghost still haunts the riverbanks, eternally searching for a way home.
Witnesses reported that as the storm reached its climax, the Manatee River mysteriously drained, leaving an eerie, dry expanse where the water once flowed. Deer walked across the empty riverbed as if the river itself had fled the storm’s wrath.
The storm of 1846 faded into history, but its ghostly presence lingered, as generations passed down stories of the strange happenings that night. Then came the storm of 1921—a hurricane that seemed to echo the Great Gale’s fury. Known as the Tampa Bay Hurricane, it skirted Florida’s Gulf Coast much like the recent Hurricane Helene, bringing with it devastating storm surges.
Just like in 1846, the winds screamed through Sarasota and Manatee counties, ripping apart homes and docks, and sweeping Passage Key off the map. In Bradenton, residents swore they could hear whispers carried on the wind, the same eerie sounds that had haunted their ancestors. As Helene’s storm surge battered the coast, people reported seeing shadows on the water—figures that weren’t quite human, as if the spirits of those lost in past storms had returned, drawn by the fury of nature once more.
Though the storms passed, the tales remain—whispers of ghostly figures, strange seabirds, and rivers that vanish in the night, a haunting reminder that Florida’s storms are never truly over.
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