The following story is often omitted from history books. The elderly, those with a strong aversion to graphic content, and those who hold Thanksgiving sacred, should not continue reading.

It happened on a dreary, overcast Wednesday—the day before Thanksgiving—in the rural town of Kramden, Indiana. The year was 1896. Obadiah Blanch, owner of Blanch Prime Poultry, was hard at work on the final orders for Turkey Day. Most of the birds had been slaughtered—but there remained a few special turkeys, saved for friends, family, and those of high civic priority. This was the tradition in Kramden. Abraham Blanch—Obadiah’s father, and founder of Blanch Prime Poultry—had done it that way, and had told his son to do it that way too. And so, for many years now, Obadiah and his wife Eleanor scanned the throngs of young turkeys at season’s start, keeping their eye out for birds of the highest caliber.

These went to the families of Parson John Plum, Mayor George Mullberry, Silas Weathervane—owner of the grain mill where Blanch got the feed for his birds—and one, of course, for the Blanch family themselves. In years past, a special bird was also held for Ruby May Swift: Eleanor Blanch’s sister. But she was now a widow, and her children had moved away; and so, each Thanksgiving, she arrived by coach (paid for by generous Obadiah) and spent the holiday with the Blanch family.

The day before Thanksgiving was one of great relief for Obadiah. His poultry business supplied the birds for all of the neighboring counties. He was thankful for his success. Still, it was hard work—and there was nothing like the joy of Thanksgiving Day itself; the relaxing meal that signified another year well spent; the start of a welcome few weeks off before next year’s baby birds arrived.

On that dreary Wednesday in 1896, Obadiah took a sip of water from the spigot and sharpened his axe on a whetstone. The four prized birds waited for their doom in the shady confines of a fenced-in courtyard.

One of these birds, however, was smarter than the rest. The newspapers later dubbed him “Mad-Bird Bob.” Having watched the endless slaughter of hundreds of his compatriots, Bob convinced his fellow prisoners to revolt against Farmer Blanch. Some still believe that a turkey is incapable of this kind of intelligent scheming. To them I say: ask the Blanch Family about that. Oh, wait, that’s right… nothing remains of them.

At approximately 5:00 pm, Obadiah entered the courtyard. The four prized turkeys clucked and gobbled about, as if nothing was going to happen; but when Blanch reached out and grabbed one by the neck, the other three, including Mad-Bob, went in for the kill. How long it took was uncertain. Suffice it to say that Obadiah Blanch was found lying on his back in the dirt; eyeless, tongue-less, and with many horrible beak-wounds across his face and body. What is most amazing is that the band of four renegade birds actually buried his abandoned hatchet in the soft mud near their water drum—perhaps so that no one else could find it and wield it against them.

Next was Obadiah’s wife. The squash were finally peeled and cut, and Eleanor was peeved at how long her husband was taking to get their bird dressed and ready. But it was Eleanor who was found dressed and ready, lying on the opposite side of the courtyard, apparently accosted the moment she entered the pen. She was found headless and stuffed with garlic, onions, and apples—her giblets strewn about the yard.

The Blanch children, Eve and Clarissa, were torn into ribbons. They too, it seems, entered the pen at some point; likely in search of their absent parents. But at this point on that day of horror, the complicated pin that locked the courtyard gate was left undone. It was the habit of Eleanor and Obadiah to lock it again as soon as they entered, as many birds had escaped in the past by this careless lapse. But the children, as is typical, were not so meticulous. The gate was left swinging in the breeze.

Police surmise that at this point the birds left the pen. However, instead of simply fleeing into the nearby woods, they actually waited for Ruby May’s coach to arrive. Without getting into all of the details, I’ll leave it at this: I’ve seen Mafia hits on parked cars that were less disturbing than the police photographs of that bloody coach.

Mad-Bird Bob was killed six months later by Avary Kline, a hunter in nearby Sumner Falls, who stated that the “bird came at me like a steam engine… and before I could get a shot from my musket, he bit right into my leg.” It seems the bird had acquired the taste for human blood, and relished the sinful thrill of murder. Papers from the time indicate that Mad-Bob’s carcass weighed in at 108½ pounds. How he gained so much weight during his half-year of freedom is still a matter of debate; but it is known that several young children from Kramden, Muskeegee, and Sumner Falls went missing, and were never found, during that very time.

The other three escapees from Blanch Prime Poultry were never found. Perhaps they gave up their appetite for human flesh and simply joined one of the gangs of wild turkeys known to roam the Kramden woodlands.

Skeptics, of course, claim that it must have been a man that committed the heinous murders at the old Blanch Farm back in 1896; that it’s simply impossible for a turkey to do such a thing. But even these skeptics—the ones in Kramden County anyway—remember the story of Mad-Bird Bob, and say an extra prayer for him as they carve into their sweet and tender Thanksgiving birds.

Happy Holidays!