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.png "Picture of a Chicken and a bell")
This story comes from a radio station in Missouri, The Eagle, 100.9. The story was told like this:
Since I grew up in Missouri and have spent the majority of my life there, I thought I had heard every ghost story there was that involved the Show Me State, but I've just learned I was very wrong. There's a new one about putting bells on chickens and it might just be the most bizarre of them all.
I just came across this curious video short on YouTube that I thought was just completely made up out of nothing, but have learned there is a real history in Missouri involving putting bells on chickens. Behold for yourself.
I just came across this curious video short on YouTube that I thought was just completely made up out of nothing, but have learned there is a real history in Missouri involving putting bells on chickens. Behold for yourself.
Speaking of Nightmares, having
a Chicken in your house or
apartment without a good diaper
can really be a horror show!
Click here to get yours...
.png "Video that tells how Missouri chickens are fixtured with bells")
.png "A Chicken on a pumpkin")
Is there any truth to this tall tale about putting bells on chickens in Missouri?I had heard that some Missouri farmers will put bells on chickens, but it's not for supernatural reasons. Bells can be a training tool or be used to ward off predators that get spooked when they would get near chicken coops, the birds get flustered by the predator and start running around and then the bells do their thing. That's not what this story teller is trying to say, though.
I suspect this is a twist on the old (and false) witch bell thing that you can still find on Amazon. Some of those who delve into the dark arts think these bells will ward off evil spirits. The key word is "think". Don't even get me started on what it really takes to battle the darkness. That's a story for a different day. However, it appears that there are some who do put bells on chickens in Missouri to protect themselves from "evil". If that is what makes you happy, good luck catching the chickens to do bell installation.
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Chickens in the Dark Arts
The Witches Hen
At dawn, a rooster’s cry was said to drive away the night’s spirits. At dusk, a hen’s cluck might mark the stirring of older, hidden powers. For centuries, chickens and their eggs were more than farmyard creatures—they were omens, offerings, and tools of magic.
The egg, delicate yet powerful, was thought to trap curses. In Eastern Europe, a fresh egg rolled across the body could draw out the evil eye; when cracked, its strange spots revealed the shape of the malice within. Elsewhere, fortune-seekers gazed into drifting egg whites or watched a rooster peck at letters in the dirt, listening for the gods’ whispers.
But chickens were feared as much as they were revered. A hen that crowed like a rooster, or an egg with two yolks, was a sign of witchcraft. Women who kept too many birds, or knew how to coax them to lay, might find themselves accused of consorting with dark forces.
Still, chickens also guarded against such dangers. A rooster’s crow at dawn scattered spells and shadows. Eggs buried under thresholds or at the edge of a field could shield a home from witches’ harm.
Even now, in certain rites and traditions, eggs are cracked, rolled, or hidden to cleanse, protect, or bring new life. The old ways linger, whispering through the yard where a hen scratches at the earth.
The humble chicken—provider of food, omen of fate, and companion to both witch and warder—has always stood with us in the twilight between the ordinary and the unknown.
The egg, delicate yet powerful, was thought to trap curses. In Eastern Europe, a fresh egg rolled across the body could draw out the evil eye; when cracked, its strange spots revealed the shape of the malice within. Elsewhere, fortune-seekers gazed into drifting egg whites or watched a rooster peck at letters in the dirt, listening for the gods’ whispers.
But chickens were feared as much as they were revered. A hen that crowed like a rooster, or an egg with two yolks, was a sign of witchcraft. Women who kept too many birds, or knew how to coax them to lay, might find themselves accused of consorting with dark forces.
Still, chickens also guarded against such dangers. A rooster’s crow at dawn scattered spells and shadows. Eggs buried under thresholds or at the edge of a field could shield a home from witches’ harm.
Even now, in certain rites and traditions, eggs are cracked, rolled, or hidden to cleanse, protect, or bring new life. The old ways linger, whispering through the yard where a hen scratches at the earth.
The humble chicken—provider of food, omen of fate, and companion to both witch and warder—has always stood with us in the twilight between the ordinary and the unknown.
The Witch of Gregory Four Corners
THE MYSTERY OF HannaH Cranna
Just past the bend near the waste transfer station between Trumbull and Monroe Connecticut, lies a place the living rarely linger: Gregory Four Corners Cemetery. Perched on a steep hillside, shaded by a canopy of gnarled trees, the graveyard is shrouded in gloom even on the brightest summer noon. A rusting chain-link fence guards three sides, while the fourth—facing the road—is defended by a sheer embankment. There is no gate, no welcoming path. To reach the graves, one must abandon the safety of wheels and tread upward on foot, as if climbing into another world.
Why such a foreboding location was chosen for burials is a mystery. No funeral procession could have easily scaled that steep incline. Perhaps the road came later, carving the hill away, leaving the dead stranded above the modern world. By then, the cemetery had already slipped into disuse, its last mourners long since buried with those they came to grieve.
Why such a foreboding location was chosen for burials is a mystery. No funeral procession could have easily scaled that steep incline. Perhaps the road came later, carving the hill away, leaving the dead stranded above the modern world. By then, the cemetery had already slipped into disuse, its last mourners long since buried with those they came to grieve.
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Time has not been kind to Gregory Four Corners. The oldest graves are marked by crude fieldstones and slate slabs, many broken and sinking into the soil as if the dead are dragging them down. The few marble markers that remain from the 1800s are nearly unreadable, their names dissolved into silence. For most of its residents, memory itself has eroded.
All, that is, except for one.
It is here, along the edge of the embankment, that the grave of Hannah Cranna Hovey lies—a name that still stirs whispers more than 160 years after her death.
All, that is, except for one.
It is here, along the edge of the embankment, that the grave of Hannah Cranna Hovey lies—a name that still stirs whispers more than 160 years after her death.
The Witch of Monroe
And her Rooster "Old Boreas"
Hannah’s stone is simple, its lettering plain, its surface strangely newer than one would expect. Tokens—trinkets, coins, flowers—are left constantly upon it, offerings from those who fear what might happen if they leave empty-handed. For Hannah Cranna is remembered not as a quiet widow, but as the Wicked Witch of Monroe.
Children of Trumbull and Monroe grow up on her tale, told around Halloween fires, whispered on daring midnight visits to the cemetery. Local lore places her among the region’s most feared legends, alongside the grotesque Melon Heads of Velvet Street and the faceless spirits said to haunt the ruins of an old Victorian mansion.
Hannah and Her Familiar
Hannah’s reputation as a witch began with death. When her husband, Captain Joseph Hovey, fell to his death from a cliff, the town decided it was not accident but enchantment that drove him to it. Alone on her wooded hilltop, Hannah kept the company of a rooster she called Old Boreas—named for the ancient Greek god of the winter winds. His feathers were black as midnight, and his crow was said to split the silence not at dawn, but at the stroke of midnight—the Witching Hour.
To the townsfolk, there could be no doubt: Old Boreas was her familiar, a demonic spirit in avian guise. Each midnight crow was taken as an omen, a herald of death soon to come. None slept easily within earshot of that call.
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Curses and Dark Promises
Hannah was feared not only for her strange companion but for her sharp tongue. Neighbors who denied her firewood, food, or respect often found themselves cursed. One fisherman who laughed at her warning found he never caught another fish again. A farmwife who offered her a small pie instead of a large one discovered her baking forever ruined. Yet, when the town suffered a drought, a desperate farmer begged Hannah for aid. She promised rain “by sundown tomorrow”—and by the next day, the heavens opened.
Her power, whether real or imagined, was undeniable.
A Death Foretold
In the bitter winter of 1859, Old Boreas died. Hannah, grief-stricken, buried him beneath the frozen earth of her garden, performing strange rites in the moonlight. “Now I too will soon depart this life,” she whispered. To her neighbors, the death of her familiar could mean only one thing: Hannah’s own end was near.
And so it was. Pale, frail, and fading, she confided to a neighbor that the spirits of the beyond were calling her. She gave strict instructions for her burial: she must not be interred until after sundown, and a proper number of pallbearers must carry her coffin on their shoulders to Gregory Four Corners. “If my wishes are ignored,” she warned, “trouble and vexation will befall you.”
When she was found dead soon after, her commands were remembered—but not obeyed.
And so it was. Pale, frail, and fading, she confided to a neighbor that the spirits of the beyond were calling her. She gave strict instructions for her burial: she must not be interred until after sundown, and a proper number of pallbearers must carry her coffin on their shoulders to Gregory Four Corners. “If my wishes are ignored,” she warned, “trouble and vexation will befall you.”
When she was found dead soon after, her commands were remembered—but not obeyed.
A Funeral for a Witch
Snow blanketed the hills that winter, and the men tasked with carrying her coffin chose the easier path. Instead of hoisting her to their shoulders, they lashed the coffin to a sled.
The dead did not approve.
Only yards from her house, the coffin slid free, tumbling back down the slope as though Hannah herself resisted her journey. Shaken, the men chained it tightly and even sat atop it as they dragged it forward. Yet as they reached the crest of the last hill before Gregory Four Corners, the coffin shook violently, throwing them into the snow. Terrified, they abandoned the sled and carried Hannah the rest of the way by hand, delivering her to her grave just as the sun disappeared.
As they turned home, thunder cracked across the winter sky, and Hannah’s house erupted into flames. None dared go near, and the ruins smoldered for days.
The dead did not approve.
Only yards from her house, the coffin slid free, tumbling back down the slope as though Hannah herself resisted her journey. Shaken, the men chained it tightly and even sat atop it as they dragged it forward. Yet as they reached the crest of the last hill before Gregory Four Corners, the coffin shook violently, throwing them into the snow. Terrified, they abandoned the sled and carried Hannah the rest of the way by hand, delivering her to her grave just as the sun disappeared.
As they turned home, thunder cracked across the winter sky, and Hannah’s house erupted into flames. None dared go near, and the ruins smoldered for days.
The Witch Still Waits
More than a century and a half has passed, yet the fear lingers. Visitors to Gregory Four Corners whisper that you must leave an offering at Hannah’s stone, or misfortune will follow you home. Some claim her shadow still drifts through the trees, or her rooster’s phantom crow pierces the midnight hour.
Cemeteries are not always silent resting places. Some, like Gregory Four Corners, are thresholds where the living brush against the dead—and where one witch’s spirit waits for those bold, or foolish, enough to come empty-handed.
Cemeteries are not always silent resting places. Some, like Gregory Four Corners, are thresholds where the living brush against the dead—and where one witch’s spirit waits for those bold, or foolish, enough to come empty-handed.
Philosophically Speaking...
The Eternal Question: Chicken or Egg?
The timeless puzzle of whether the chicken or the egg came first has intrigued humanity for centuries. More than a scientific riddle, it has been woven into ancient myths from cultures around the globe, where chickens and eggs often carry symbolic weight in tales of creation and cosmic beginnings. This exploration takes us into those myths, uncovering how eggs and chickens became enduring symbols of origin, fertility, and transformation.
The Cosmic Egg: Origins of the Universe
In many traditions, the universe itself is said to have emerged from a great cosmic egg—an image of pure potential and the spark of existence. This “cosmic egg” appears in Hindu texts, Chinese mythology, and the beliefs of ancient Egypt. It represents the universe in its embryonic state, before unfolding into the diversity of life. The moment it cracks open signifies birth, order, and the dawning of creation, with chickens sometimes depicted as guardians or bringers of this cosmic vessel.
The Divine Hen: Fertility and Motherhood
Across many cultures, chickens—especially hens—stand for motherhood and fertility. In Mesopotamia, the goddess Inanna is pictured with wings and surrounded by chickens, highlighting her role as a protector of life and women. Celtic lore ties the goddess Brigid to hens and eggs as emblems of birth, death, and rebirth. In indigenous traditions, chickens often feature in fertility rituals, representing nourishment, domesticity, and the rhythms of nature.
The World Egg: Foundations of Earth
Closely related is the “world egg,” a symbol of earth’s very structure and the source of all life. In Norse stories, the giant Ymir emerges from primordial chaos, giving rise to the egg from which heaven and earth are shaped. Chinese myths describe the goddess Nuwa repairing the broken shell of the cosmic egg to fashion the world, marking her role as mother and protector of humanity. Chickens, often tied to this mythic egg, represent renewal, fertility, and the endless cycle of life.
Eggs of Creation: Birthplace of Gods and Heroes
Eggs in myth are not just symbols of beginnings—they are also vessels for gods and heroes. In Greek mythology, the goddess Eurynome emerges from the cosmic egg, shaping the heavens, earth, and all creatures through her dance. In Egyptian tradition, the sun god Ra hatches from the egg of a primordial goose, embodying both creation and renewal. In such stories, chickens take on sacred roles, imagined as divine messengers or protectors of cosmic balance.
The Egg of Chaos: Transformation and Renewal
In some myths, the egg embodies not only birth but also chaos, transformation, and rebirth. Egyptian mythology portrays the scarab god Khepri rolling the sun across the sky each day, mirroring the cycle of death and renewal tied to the cosmic egg. Here, eggs symbolize emergence from disorder and the fragile balance of creation. Chickens again appear as guardians, entrusted with safeguarding life’s continuity.
Why Do We Eat So Much Chicken? A Story From 1,000 Years Ago
Today, chicken is one of the most popular foods around the world—think chicken nuggets, chicken sandwiches, and fried chicken! But a long time ago in Europe, people didn’t eat that much chicken at all.
So what changed?
About 1,000 years ago, the Catholic Church made a big rule: on certain days (about 130 days every year), people were not allowed to eat meat from animals with four legs—like cows, pigs, or goats. But guess what was allowed? Chickens! Because they only have two legs.
Suddenly, everyone wanted to eat more chicken—and that changed everything!
Before that, chickens weren’t very big, and they didn’t lay eggs all year. People mainly kept them for their pretty feathers or for fighting (a gambling "sport" that, fortunately, is rare these days). But once chickens became a popular food, people started choosing the ones that were fatter and laid more eggs, and began raising more of them.
Scientists discovered a special gene (a tiny part of DNA that tells an animal how to grow) in today’s chickens. This gene, called TSHR, helped chickens lay eggs all year round and grow plumper. That gene started showing up more often in chickens around the time people started eating more of them—right after the Church made those rules.
Some scientists studied old chicken bones from many years ago and found that before those rules, most chickens didn’t have the TSHR gene. But suddenly, about 1,000 years ago, lots of chickens had it.
That shows how humans helped change what chickens looked like and their laying habits, just by deciding to eat more of them!
So, the next time you eat a chicken nugget, remember—chickens became the superstars of the dinner table thanks to some old Church rules and smart farmers who raised better birds.
NOTE: This is a simplification of an article in Science.org called How an ancient pope helped make chickens fat, A religious decree 1000 years ago turned the bird into a popular dish in Europe from Sept. 15, 2016. Written originally by Ann Gibbons. Want to read the original? Cut and paste this link:
https://www.science.org/content/article/how-ancient-pope-helped-make-chickens-fat
These Chickens aren't fat - They are pleasantly plump!
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