Happy Thanksgiving

Fowl play. 

It was mid-October mid-1970s, and Louisville,  Quebec was bustling in preparation for the annual Thanksgiving feasts. The air was crisp, and homes glowed with the warmth of candles and wood stoves. In every window, pumpkin pies cooling on windowsills, cranberries simmering, and, of course, the centerpiece of every table would soon be a roast turkey. After all the town farmers had won awards for their robust givings and prized birds at markets. 

There was something different about the turkeys that year. Everyone in town had noticed it. They were larger than usual, with feathers that seemed almost metallic in the sunlight. Their beady eyes seemed to follow you as you moved, and their gobbles, deep and guttural, echoed unnervingly through the woods that bordered the town.

No one thought much of it at first. After all, the turkeys had been fattened up for the feast, and their larger size meant more food. 

It wasn’t until Daniel Granger, the local turkey farmer, went missing that the unease settled in. Daniel had gone out to hunt one of the turkeys that roamed his farm’s wooded edge. Hours passed, and when Daniel didn’t return a search party was sent out. All they found was his gun, twisted and broken, the ground around it torn apart as though something had struggled violently. There were no footprints, no signs of where he had gone. 

Just blood and feathers. Hundreds of dark, glistening feathers.

Sam Dunahee, a local butcher, was called to process some of the turkeys. He'd been working with animals all his life, so nothing phased him until he got a look at the bird a customer had brought him. It was enormous, its talons sharper than any he’d seen on a turkey before.

His shop boy John Dubois, said, as Sam reached for his cleaver, the turkey lunged at him with a speed that defied logic. The bird’s claws sank into his arm.  With a strength impossible for a bird, it flapped its powerful wings, knocking Sam to the ground. The Turkey started pecking at his neck and face, his arms shredded and torn up. The turkey got a hold of Sam's left eye and tore it out like nothing. The final blow was suspected to be the severing of his carotid artery. Sam bled out on the shop floor.

It might sound absurd, but turkeys can, in fact, be dangerous. Wild turkeys, especially males, are known to be territorial, and during mating season, they can become aggressive toward humans. These birds can weigh up to 30 pounds, and their powerful legs and sharp talons are capable of delivering painful injuries. If they feel threatened, they won’t hesitate to attack.

But what was happening in Louisville, was far beyond territorial aggression.

The Mayor, Gilles Lamontagne, called the town to gather, to address these horrible incidents. .As he stood up to make his speech, the woods surrounding the town square erupted in noise. 

The gobbling. It was louder than any turkey call they’d ever heard, more like a growl, vibrating the very ground beneath them.

Then, out of the shadows, they came.

Turkeys, dozens of them, emerged from the woods, their eyes almost glowing. They were larger than any turkey had a right to be, their feathers puffed up in rage, and their talons gleaming like daggers. 

For a moment, no one moved. It seemed impossible that these creatures, meant to be prey, could be the ones attacking.

Chaos broke out as the turkeys descended upon the square. Their powerful wings flapped, knocking people to the ground, their beaks tearing into flesh, their talons slashing at anyone in their path. The air was filled with screams and the sound of tearing fabric and flesh. One by one, the townsfolk tried to flee, but the turkeys were relentless, hunting them down with a chilling precision.

By morning, the town was silent. The once bustling square was littered with overturned tables, broken dishes, and the blood of the townspeople. Stains lined the cobblestone streets, and feathers drifted in the morning breeze.

No one knows where they came from or why they attacked. Some say it was nature’s revenge, but one thing was clear the turkeys of Louisville were no ordinary birds.

So, this Thanksgiving, as you carve into that roast turkey, remember the tale of the turkeys that hunted instead of being hunted. 

Happy Gooble Gobble Day