I sat near the fire the boys built. The chill of this moonless Halloween night kept us bundled, and we’d even put blankets on our lawn chairs to keep the cold from seeping through. When the fire snapped and crackled, I knew it was time.
“OK, guys, I have a story to share. Have you heard about the haunted chicken coop?”
They regarded me with blank looks, but I kept a straight face.
“One night, at the stroke of midnight, a farmer heard a commotion from his hen house. Thinking a fox was raiding his chickens, he charged to protect his flock, but when he got in, the coop was empty. All his chickens were outside, but they’d been hurled from the house by a force or forces unseen.”
I glanced at both boys. They stared at the fire, intent on my words.
“It kept happening, night after night, always at midnight, and nothing, neither latches nor locks, could prevent this nocturnal violence against his chickens. After a few weeks, the farmer knew he’d met his match, so he called an expert from the university.”
A branch popped and shot sparks out onto the ground.
“That night, the farmer and the expert hid in the bushes and waited, their eyes fixed on the chicken coop. At the stroke of midnight, it happened again. Locks snapped open, latches came loose, the doors flew wide and, one by one, the chickens were thrown bodily from the coop. When the last chicken had fluttered down, the expert spoke. ‘We’ll have to wait ’til daylight,’ he said.”
The next morning, they sat in the farmer’s kitchen and watched the sun rise over the ridgeline. The expert took a sip of coffee and said, ‘I have some bad news. I’m afraid you have a poultrygeist.’”
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.