I lived for the first thirteen years of my life on what had been a farm. In a sense, it still was. Barns were still standing. Although many of them were rapidly falling into disrepair. Empty shells of their former selves. The days of the property's existence as a real farm, however, were over. They had ended with the death of my grandfather, two years before I was born.
The last animals to go were the chickens. I can remember the chickens. I can remember the barn they called home and the nests on which they sat. And while I would like to recall wonderful early childhood memories of feeding chickens and collecting eggs, it would be far from the truth. Instead, the memories I have of our chickens are traumatic ones. It would have been horrific enough just to bear witness to the headless bodies of chickens being brought into our house to have their feathers plucked. (I shudder to think of what I ate for dinner those nights). But the horror didn't end there.
The barn in which they lived was behind our house. Past the garage and across a small field. Easily within sight of the house. Not far. As a small child, I walked past the barn often. Even wandered inside occasionally. I watched the chickens as they sat on their long narrow nests. Clucking softly. Alas, they were not always so calm. So settled. So non-threatening.
I might have been standing just outside the barn door that day. I might have been simply walking past. I don't recall. I only recall that, suddenly, the barn door flew open and a horde of chickens rushed out. Obviously delighted to be outside. Free. Unsure where to run first. And run they did. All around me. I was surrounded within seconds. And I was terrified. Everywhere I turned, the creatures were there. Moving awkwardly. Clucking noisily. Flapping their feathery wings. Pecking for food. Seemingly oblivious to my presence. I couldn't move without brushing against them. Without feeling their thick feathery bodies pressing against me. I could see no means of escape. Except to push through a sea of chickens.
I eventually got past the chickens. But I have never gotten past the trauma. The touch of birds' feathers. The sudden gawky movements of their heads. The sound of flapping wings. All of these profoundly disturb me. I have been able to repress my fear over the years. Through careful avoidance. And by ensuring that any chicken I encounter no longer bears any resemblance to the terrifying creatures of my childhood.
But when I saw this article on one of my new favourite websites, it all came flooding back. This is true horror. Mike. Mike is the face (or in his case, the headless body) of fear. I may not sleep for a week.
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