On a perfectly ordinary Monday morning, Oliver Grant woke up because a chicken was screaming outside his window.

Not clucking.

Not crowing.

Screaming.

"AAAAAAAAAAAA!"

Oliver opened one eye slowly and stared at the ceiling fan above him.

"Either I'm still dreaming," he muttered, "or that chicken owes someone money."

The chicken screamed again.

Oliver rolled out of bed, stepped on a sock, nearly died, and smacked directly into the wall before finally reaching the window of his tiny rented house in the countryside.

Outside, an old woman wearing pink pajamas was chasing a chicken with a broom.

"You little criminal!" she shouted.

The chicken ran faster.

"You stole my noodles!"

Oliver blinked twice.

He had moved to the village of Bellmare only three days ago, and already it felt less like a peaceful countryside retreat and more like a reality show designed by unstable people.

Back in London, Oliver had worked as an accountant for seven miserable years. Seven years of spreadsheets, fluorescent office lights, and a boss who used the phrase "team synergy" so often it should have been considered a criminal offense.

Then came the disaster.