Chapter 1: Nobody Remembers the Chicken Boy

I’m just a nobody working as a groundskeeper at the Blue Ridge Institute—a bottom-rung rookie, barely scraping by. Nobody here even remembers my name—except maybe the payroll bot. One morning, while tossing feed to the chickens behind the maintenance shed, I suddenly heard a voice in my head.

The dawn air was sharp, tinged with the scent of damp straw and the metallic tang of feed, my boots crunching over gravel that always managed to get stuck in the soles. Chickens strutted in circles, dust rising as they clucked. That’s when it hit me—a voice, clear as day but echoing right between my ears.

"Damn that crazy woman. The second I get my body back, I’m gonna make her pay."

"That mutt—she used some weird ritual to suck all my power, and even turned me into a chicken!"

"What are you staring at? Keep staring, and I’ll go full Hitchcock on your eyeballs."

The early sunlight glinted off its beady eyes, making it look almost smug. My hand froze on the chicken’s neck. Wait. My pulse thudded in my ears. Did I just hear that?

For a second, I just stood there, heart pounding like I’d touched a live wire. I stared at that chicken, my fingers still tangled in its rough, scraggly feathers, wondering if I’d finally cracked after so many double shifts.

The chicken... is talking?

1

Not sure if I was losing my mind, I gave the chicken’s head a little shake. Maybe I’d finally lost it—too many late-night horror podcasts and not enough sleep. Or was I possessed?

My fingers trembled as I jostled the bird gently, glancing over my shoulder to make sure none of the other workers saw me talking to livestock. Maybe it was that leftover gas station burrito from last night, or the three hours of sleep I’d gotten thanks to a busted heating pipe. My nerves buzzed, the way they always did after a week of graveyard shifts. Was this what burnout felt like?

Right then, the chicken grumbled in my mind again:

"Quit shaking my damn head. I’m getting dizzy!"

"This kid’s got rocks in his head. If you’re feeding chickens, just feed them. Why choke me?"

I was so freaked out I nearly jumped out of my boots. I dropped the chicken and stumbled backward across the dirt. In a world where anything’s possible—mutants, weird science, urban legends—had I really run into a talking chicken?

My sneakers slid through a pile of hay, almost sending me crashing into the fence. I fumbled for my phone, half-expecting to see a camera crew jump out, like this was some sort of prank. But no—just me, the chickens, and the sunrise gleaming off the dew. This place had always been weird, rumors of secret labs and ghost sightings swirling through the staff lounge, but this? This was something else entirely.

After all, before it landed, that chicken did a backwards somersault with a tuck, three and a half spins. Like some feathered Olympic gymnast.

I blinked, replaying the move in my mind. I’d seen a lot of wild stuff—squirrels doing parkour on the tool shed, raccoons outsmarting the automatic feeders—but a chicken landing like Simone Biles? This was next-level.

Could this chicken eat people? I was just a lowly groundskeeper, with no skills to defend myself—honestly, I hadn’t even passed the basic safety training. Trembling, I pointed to the feed, my voice shaking as I tried to sound friendly: "Cluck, cluck cluck, cluck cluck cluck..."

My hand was shaking so hard I nearly spilled the whole scoop of feed. In a small voice, I tried to sound friendly, as if that would make a difference: "Cluck, cluck cluck, cluck cluck cluck..." It sounded even more ridiculous out loud, echoing off the siding of the maintenance shed. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a crow caw, like even nature was mocking me.

The chicken actually rolled its eyes at me.

It cocked its head, giving me the most exasperated look a bird ever gave a human. If it could have crossed its wings, I swear it would’ve.

"This kid might be a little slow, but at least he’s got a good heart."

"Seeing how weak you are, I’ll find a chance to help you out."

My pulse slowed a bit. Was that... pity in its voice? I’d been dumped on by humans my whole life, but sympathy from poultry? That was a first.

Opportunity knocks, right? Or maybe it was just my brain short-circuiting.

I had just started to smile when the chicken’s voice echoed in my head again:

A cautious, hopeful flutter stirred in my chest. Maybe this was a blessing in disguise—my golden ticket out of the chicken coop.

"What are you grinning about?"

"If only I could just soak up some energy drinks and get my strength back—what a dump this place is. Dump, dump, dump!"

"There’s a fence so I can’t get out, not a single energy bar to be found, and they still dream of raising fancy pets. Might as well be dead."

Energy bars... and fancy pets?

I almost lost it. Did it not realize it was just an ordinary broiler chicken?

I’d been at Blue Ridge Institute less than half a year. There were a bunch of other rookies who joined with me, but most of them had family connections and quickly landed cushy gigs. Only unlucky me got sent to the animal pens to feed the meat chickens that other groundskeepers would later roast for the staff cookout. No connections—not even trusted to shovel out the goat pen.

I’d seen it a hundred times—some new kid fresh from college getting handed the cushy office gig because their uncle played golf with the director. Meanwhile, I was stuck in rubber boots, knee-deep in feathers and muck, my only company the squabbling hens and the occasional mouse. No family to vouch for me, no one to call in a favor. Just me and the chickens.

But what if this chicken was something special? Had I stumbled onto a gold mine?

My mind raced—stories of lab accidents, genetic experiments gone wrong, rumors about the Institute’s basement. What if this was my ticket out? Maybe I could finally afford rent somewhere with real heat, not just a space heater that wheezed all night.

Rookies get paid every quarter: one prepaid Visa gift card and a hundred bucks. I’d just gotten my card and was planning to slip it to Mr. Lawson from the facilities office for a shot at a better job. Now, could this chicken be my ticket out?

I stared at the card, thumb tracing the numbers. That was groceries for a week. Heat for a month. Was I really about to feed it to a chicken?

I hesitated. Should I give it my gift card? I really had no idea what it was. What if it was some kind of evil spirit? I’d heard evil spirits were unpredictable and dangerous. If it figured out I could hear its thoughts, I’d be toast.

My stomach churned. My grandma always said, "Don’t bargain with the unknown—especially if it talks back." But then again, she also thought email was a government conspiracy. My options were thin.

Meanwhile, it kept muttering: "Life sucks, might as well croak... what’s the point of living..."

The chicken drooped, wings sagging. I almost felt sorry for it—almost. I knew that look: the look of someone who’d lost everything. Seen it plenty, looking in the mirror after another shift cleaning up after everyone else.

I decided to take a gamble. But I had to keep my hands clean.

Drawing a deep breath, I squared my shoulders. This was it. Sink or swim, as my dad would say.

Looking at the chicken’s droopy state, I fetched my gift card and put on my best worried face: "Hey, sorry about twisting your neck earlier. I don’t know if this card can help you, but here."

I held the card out, wincing as I realized just how desperate I must look. My voice cracked, but I tried to sound casual. The chicken’s head snapped up, eyes suddenly sharp as a hawk’s. For a split second, I wondered if this was the moment my luck finally turned.

The moment I said that, my mind cleared up. The chicken lifted its head, its eyes suddenly blazing with excitement. Its joy was obvious.

I could almost feel the chicken’s gratitude pulsing in the air, like static before a storm. For the first time since I’d started here, hope flickered—strange, electric, but real.

Quickly, I turned away, tossed the card into the feed trough, and pretended to be indifferent: "Well, there goes half a year’s pay."

I tried to act nonchalant, like I hadn’t just thrown my future into the dirt with the corn. The feed clattered in the metal trough, echoing louder than I wanted. If anyone saw, I could just say I’d dropped it by mistake.

There was a faint rustling behind me, but the voice in my head was jubilant.

A warm, giddy sensation bubbled in my chest—not my own, but bleeding through from the chicken, like a radio turned up too loud.

"You’re my real dad—finally, salvation!"

"Oh my god, System, get over here! Grandpa’s got cash again!"

"Saint Peter, bless me!"

Well, at least one of us was getting divine intervention.