Mr. Chickenhead Man

My eight-year-old daughter’s screams pierce the quiet night as I check the time on my watch; it reads 10:12 pm. Anxious, I make my way to her bedroom and push the door open, flicking on the light switch. There she is, sitting up in bed, tears streaming down her face. I rush to her side, embracing her tightly as I try to calm her, but her distress seems unending. I keep swaying her gently back and forth until she finally calms down enough to speak. With a soothing tone, I assured her she was safe and that I would protect her.

With a soothing tone, I assured her she was safe and that I would protect her. “It’s ok, I’m here.”

Through her sobs, she manages to say, “It’s Mr. Chickenhead Man. He’s in the room with us.”

I hold her even closer and say, “Sweetie, there’s no such thing as Mr. Chickenhead Man. It was just a dream.”

She looked at me with wide, frightened eyes, “But Daddy, he was real! I saw him standing at the foot of my bed, staring at me with his big, round eyes.”

I furrowed my brow, trying to understand her fear. “Honey, sometimes our minds play tricks on us when we’re half-asleep. There’s no monster here; it’s just your imagination.”

She clung to me, still trembling. “Promise you won’t leave, Daddy.”

I hugged her tighter, reassuring her, “I promise, sweetheart. I won’t leave you alone. Now, let’s try to get some sleep. Tomorrow is a new day, and there’s no room for scary dreams.”

I continue to sway gently with my daughter until her crying stops, and then I carefully tuck her back under her covers. Taking a seat in the chair by her bedside, I watch over her until she falls asleep once more. This is a familiar routine; nightmares have plagued her before, but it’s always the same sinister character, Mr. Chickenhead Man, that haunts her dreams.

From her descriptions, he’s a figure in a dark suit, black vest, black shirt, and a red tie. Black leather shoes and gloves completed his attire, and he carries a pocket watch adorned with a gleaming silver chain fastened to his vest pocket. Of course, the most unsettling detail is his head, a peculiar fusion of a chicken’s head and a man’s body. She’s unsure whether it’s a mask concealing a human face or a real chicken’s head.

The bizarre Mr. Chickenhead Man saga started back years ago when our youngest daughter, Elsa, was just five years old and started pilfering cookies from the kitchen. Like most mischievous youngsters caught in the act, she invented an elaborate excuse, and that’s when this peculiar, eerie character first entered our lives.

“It wasn’t me; Mr. Chickenhead Man took the cookies!” Elsa exclaimed, her eyes wide with a mixture of innocence and alarm.

Baffled by this unexpected turn of events, I inquired, “What do you mean by Mr. Chickenhead Man?”

She responded hastily, speaking in hushed tones as if she feared the very mention of his name. “You know, the man in a fancy suit with a chicken head! He’s the one who took the cookies!”

I couldn’t help but find her tale utterly preposterous. It seemed like she was weaving fantastical stories to conceal her own mischievous acts of cookie thievery. I had no inkling that my daughter possessed such a vivid imagination. My wife had read somewhere that encouraging a child to draw their nightmares could help them confront and conquer their fears. So, we decided to put this theory to the test and asked Elsa to sketch a picture of this enigmatic Mr. Chickenhead Man. The only reasonable explanation was that she had concocted the entire character; after all, we didn’t want to fuel Elsa’s fertile imagination or her penchant for weaving fantasies. Most importantly, we didn’t want our daughter to carry the weight of guilt over such a trivial matter. Hence, we never mentioned the topic again, hoping that Elsa’s flights of fancy would soon fade away.

The following year, someone broke a window, and once again, Elsa accused Mr. Chickenhead Man of doing it.. He had supposedly entered the room, broken the window, and left. I was at a loss about how to handle this situation. It was clear that Elsa was concealing something. As a parent, you’re responsible for monitoring your child’s actions, but I didn’t want to blow this out of proportion. Many kids outgrow imaginary companions after a few years, and I didn’t want to stifle her creativity either.

During our visit to my mother the following week, we decided to share our concerns about Elsa’s recent troubles.

“She keeps blaming it on this imaginary character named Mr. Chickenhead Man,” I explained. “I don’t want to stifle her creativity, but I also don’t want her resorting to lies to avoid responsibility.”

My mother pondered this for a moment before responding, “A child’s imagination is a potent force. Did you know there are things, like demons, entities, spirits, or whatever you want to call them, that exist beyond our material world? When someone invests enough fear or belief in them, they can cross over and take on a physical form, even interact with our reality. When that happens, it can be quite dangerous.”

“Are you suggesting that Mr. Chickenhead Man might be real?” I asked, intrigued and somewhat unsettled.

“No, but I’m not ruling it out either,” my mother replied. “The power of the human mind is an incredible force. It’s one of the universe’s creative engines. What a child envisions can become real to them. I’m not passing judgment on whether it’s good or bad; it simply is. So, when Elsa insists Mr. Chickenhead Man is real, it’s because she believes he is. If you nurture her imagination, it will flourish. If you discourage it, Mr. Chickenhead Man might fade away.”

“I think Elsa made him up,” I countered. “I don’t want to give her an excuse for misbehavior.”

“We need to give her the opportunity to learn self-control. If we don’t, we’re only teaching her to lie. And that’s not what we want. We want her to be honest and truthful. If she learns to lie, she’ll become like so many others in the world,” my mother wisely advised.

The conversation with my mother left me with a mix of thoughts and emotions. The idea that Elsa’s vivid imagination could somehow manifest into a tangible presence was both intriguing and unsettling. Balancing encouragement for her creativity with the need for honesty and responsibility became a delicate task.

As the school year began, Elsa’s behavior took a troubling turn. They summoned her to the principal’s office for placing nails at the bottom of the slide where other children were playing. This dangerous act resulted in her suspension for ten days, and throughout that entire time, she persisted in blaming Mr. Chickenhead Man. Strangely, incidents like this became more frequent. Whenever questioned, she consistently insisted that he had just been in the room or was in the process of leaving when someone entered. It felt as though she was constantly getting into trouble–from fights to damaging property or stealing things, these occurrences became a weekly ordeal.

When Elsa entered the third grade, we decided to move to a different town, hoping that a new school would provide a fresh start. Initially, it seemed to work. Elsa transformed into a model student for the first few months. However, her old behavior slowly began resurfacing. She broke into the teacher’s cabinet and stole items, which resulted in her being placed on permanent in-school suspension. Perplexed and concerned, we confronted her about her actions, and once again, she attributed it all to Mr. Chickenhead Man.

When Elsa turned nine, we made an unsettling discovery. While she was at school, my wife decided to clean her room. During this process, she reached under the bed and found an old shoebox. Upon opening it, she was met with sheer terror. The box contained a gruesome sight. It was filled with dead birds, each of them decapitated and with their small eyes gouged out. Shocked and horrified, my wife showed me the box when I returned home from work. When we confronted Elsa about this horrifying find, she once again attributed it all to Mr. Chickenhead Man. It became clear that something more profound was at play, so we decided to seek therapy for her.

Two years later, when Elsa was eleven, a devastating incident occurred. Our house caught fire, and the authorities determined it was a case of arson. Once again, Elsa found herself facing police questioning, and her response remained consistent.

She pointed the blame at Mr. Chickenhead Man, uttering, “It was Mr. Chickenhead Man.”

Elsa’s persistent claims about Mr. Chickenhead Man frustrated those around her who didn’t believe her. They considered her a suspect in some of these incidents and subsequently sentenced her to therapy by the courts.. During the session, Elsa continued to insist that Mr. Chickenhead Man was real and responsible for her actions. The psychologist, with a calm and patient demeanor, delved into Elsa’s world, attempting to understand the source of her beliefs.

The psychologist recommended ongoing therapy to help Elsa navigate and express her emotions more constructively. As parents, we embraced the guidance, hoping that through understanding and support, Elsa could find healthier ways to cope with the challenges she faced. Her adolescent troubles eventually became forgotten, and everyone involved moved on with their lives.. But for Elsa, these events continued to haunt her, and she steadfastly maintained that Mr. Chickenhead Man was to blame.

At the age of twelve, Elsa’s actions took a dangerous turn when she tampered with the brakes on a classmate’s bike. Fortunately, the classmate suffered only minor cuts and bruises. The police were called, and Elsa was arrested once more. However, this time, when they questioned her, Elsa was so deeply traumatized that she couldn’t even recall the details of what had happened. Authorities attributed this memory loss to the previous fire incident and the therapy she had undergone, suggesting that it might be a side effect of the treatment. Elsa’s life was becoming increasingly enigmatic and concerning, leaving us all searching for answers to the bizarre events that continued to unfold around her.

Elsa’s ongoing struggles at school, combined with her unwavering insistence on blaming Mr. Chickenhead Man, led to a new series of therapy sessions. By the time she reached the age of fourteen, our patience had worn thin. It felt like our daughter was in constant trouble, engaging in fights, stealing, and being dishonest. The therapeutic interventions seemed to offer only temporary relief, and we grappled with the complexity of Elsa’s situation. Her belief in Mr. Chickenhead Man persisted, overshadowing any progress made in therapy. The once-hopeful prospect of a brighter future for Elsa now seemed shrouded in uncertainty.

When she turned fifteen, we decided to move back to our old neighborhood, hoping that returning to familiar surroundings might bring about positive change. Initially, the shift seemed to work. Elsa behaved like an average 15-year-old and seemed to adjust well. However, she still felt like an outsider among her peers. Elsa, who had always been talkative, used to share every detail of her day with us, including hurtful comments from her classmates. Over time, though, she began reverting to her previous problematic behavior.

My wife came up with an idea to help Elsa integrate better. She was friends with the mother of one of Elsa’s classmates and arranged a sleepover with a few teenage girls from her class. The hope was that making new friends might help Elsa calm her rebellious nature. On the appointed night, Elsa stayed at her friend’s house, and the girls gathered in the basement to watch a movie. We asked Elsa to call us before bedtime to check in and see how everything was going. It seemed like Elsa was enjoying the company of these teenage girls, and we went to bed that night with a sense of satisfaction, hoping that this newfound camaraderie would have a positive impact on our daughter’s life.

The sound of pounding on our front door jolted me awake, and I checked the clock: it read 1:47 am. With my wife behind me, I hurried to the door and peered through the peephole. It was Elsa, and she appeared utterly terrified. I swiftly opened the door, and she rushed into my arms while my wife closed the door behind her.

“He killed them; he killed them all,” Elsa exclaimed frantically.

“Who?” I inquired as we held her close. “Who killed who?”

“IT WAS MR. CHICKENHEAD MAN,” Elsa sobbed, burying her head in my chest. “He killed all the girls there, and now he’s coming for me.”

“What?” I asked as we made our way to the couch and sat down. “The girls are dead?”

“Yes, daddy, maybe even Nancy’s mom. She was upstairs when Mr. Chickenhead Man came,” Elsa cried.

“When did this happen?” I pressed for details.

“It was only about an hour ago. We were in the basement watching the movie when the door opened,” Elsa explained, her terror palpable. “He killed them all.”

“Elsa, please, stop it. Mr. Chickenhead Man is not real,” I asserted firmly.

“But he is, daddy. If you go in there, you will die, just like all the girls AAAAAHHHH!” Elsa screamed, breaking free from my embrace, and falling back onto the couch.

As we turned to look at the picture window, a chilling sight met us – a man dressed in a black suit with a red tie, sporting a chicken head, was standing there peering in. A man dressed in a black suit with a red tie, sporting a chicken head, stood there peering in. In his right hand, he held a bloody knife. Our hearts raced as he gazed at us and began to leisurely approach the front door. Fear consumed us as the man with the grotesque appearance continued to move closer to the front door. The room felt heavy, and Elsa’s words, once mere conversation, now turned into a chilling reality, leaving us in disbelief mixed with terror.

Upon reaching the doorstep, the man raised a bloody knife, its metallic gleam sending shivers down our spines in the moonlit night. Panic ensued, and I fumbled for the phone, desperately dialing the emergency number. The dispatcher’s voice on the line became our lifeline as I conveyed the unimaginable events unfolding in our home. Elsa, still huddled on the couch, continued to scream, her terror escalating with each passing moment. My wife and I, paralyzed by fear and confusion, grappled with the instinct to shield our daughter while realizing the threat at the door surpassed any rational understanding.

“Emergency. What is your emergency?” came the voice from the phone.

“WE NEED THE POLICE.”

“I need you to stay calm. Help is on the way,” the dispatcher assured. “Can you describe the situation? Is anyone injured?”

“There’s a man with a chicken head outside our door. He had a knife. My daughter says he killed everyone at the sleepover. We need help!”

“I understand. The police are on their way. Make sure all doors and windows are locked. Stay where you are.”

The man with the chicken head pressed his grotesque face against the window, his eyes fixated on us with an unsettling intensity. The seconds felt like an eternity as we awaited ‌the police. Questions swirled in my mind–was this a horrifying manifestation of Elsa’s nightmares, or had something truly otherworldly invaded our reality?

“He is looking in the window,” I whispered, the words catching in my throat.

“Do you have any weapons?” the dispatcher inquired, her tone carrying a mix of concern and urgency.

“No,” I replied, the vulnerability of our situation sinking in.

“Try to stay calm; the police are just minutes away.”

The sound of approaching sirens grew louder, and the chicken-headed man outside seemed to sense the impending intervention. With a sinister grin, he stepped back, disappearing into the shadows. The relief of the moment was tinged with lingering fear, knowing that the enigma of Mr. Chickenhead Man had just materialized before our eyes.

Credit: Rodney Hatfield Jr.

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