Delicious Reptilian Meat

Have you ever eaten "Reptilian" meat?

My grandfather said he had.

Creatures that looked exactly like us on the outside, but were fundamentally different on the inside. Extremely dangerous, yet incredibly delicious.

Before he died, my grandfather left behind a notebook. The first page read: "Reptilian look exactly like humans, but human instinct can tell them apart."

The moment my cousin Braden returned for my grandfather's funeral, my gut told me: he wasn't human!

Chapter 1

Corrie Holt's POV

When I was a little girl, my grandfather, Hoover Holt, planted a seed of fear deep in my mind.

He told stories about a creature called a "Reptilian." They looked like us, walked like us, but they weren't us.

They would mimic humans, devour humans, and replace humans.

But besides fear, I also found myself drooling.

Because my grandfather described their taste as absolutely divine.

My grandfather lived alone in a small cabin in upstate New York. He rarely talked about his youth, except for those stories about the "Reptilian."

These stories dated back to the 1970s.

Famine ravaged the land, and people turned on each other.

Legend has it that that was when the "Reptilian" appeared.

"Reptilian meat is the most delicious thing I've ever tasted." Whenever he brought it up, his eyes would light up. "It's nothing like fish or beef."

My grandfather looked haggard, his face weathered by the years. He was too old, and the doctors said he didn't have much time left.

"They look exactly like you, Corrie," he murmured to himself. "They talk just like you. They can laugh, and they can cry. But inside... they are completely hollow."

He paused, swallowing hard. "We were desperate back then. We had nothing, and the food was gone. People started to change-not just in their minds, but something much deeper. A transformation. A subtle wrongness. But no one noticed."

He lowered his voice, taking on a mysterious tone: "Then one day, we found one. Dead. A Reptilian. It looked like Old Mrs. Henderson, but it wasn't her. We were starving, Corrie. Truly starving. Days turned into weeks, and we had nothing to eat."

He closed his eyes, a shudder running through his frail body. "We cooked it. The smell... it was unimaginable. Rich, savory. It drew us all in. Every single person in the camp gathered around that pot. The dogs outside were going crazy, desperately trying to break loose and get to it. Even the hawks in the sky grew bolder, drawn by the scent, circling right over our camp."

He opened his eyes, his gaze distant and unfocused. "Corrie, that taste... oh, that taste... it was simply out of this world. It gave you a satisfaction that no other food could ever provide. It was exquisite. It was... perfect."

My stomach knotted-an indescribable dread mixed with a twisted fascination. This feeling always left me deeply unsettled.

"Grandpa," I said, swallowing hard, "it's just a story. Maybe it was a hallucination from starving. When people are desperate enough, their brains play tricks on them."

He slowly turned his head, his eyes locking onto mine. "Do you think I'm lying to you, little girl?"

"No," I tried to sound as reasonable as possible. "But it's impossible. Creatures that can replace humans? And look exactly identical? That sounds like the plot of a cheap B-movie."

He pushed himself up, his movements stiff and agonizingly slow. He walked over to an old wooden chest in the corner, its surface scarred by time. With his back to me, he rummaged around inside.

He pulled out a piece of faded parchment. It looked like an ancient drawing, incredibly detailed. He handed it to me, his hand trembling slightly.

"You think you understand, Corrie," he whispered, his tone heavy with a terrifying certainty. "But you don't. You only see what you want to see. Your eyes are easily fooled."

He paused, his gaze fixed intensely on my face. "But your gut. Your instinct knows. It can always sense when something is wrong, even when your rational mind tries to explain it away."

He shoved the parchment into my hands.

It was a rough sketch of a human torso, with a strange, almost imperceptible line running right down the center of the chest. It was a minute detail, barely visible.

My fingers brushed over the faded ink.

My stomach churned again, bringing back that familiar, unsettling feeling.

Hoover's expression was dead serious. He saw my reaction and suddenly let out a dry laugh.

"My son, your father Hamilton, he has this ability too. We all saw it, and we all felt it. And you, Corrie, you have it as well."

Grandpa Hoover's words echoed in my mind. He described 1973, an experience that had carved an indelible trauma deep into his soul.

The village was hidden deep in the mountains, completely cut off from the world by heavy snow. Supplies ran out, and hunger tortured everyone. It wasn't just discomfort; it was a deep, suffocating agony that nearly drove people insane.

"The children wouldn't stop crying. Their bellies caved in. Their skin turned pale, almost translucent. Every day, someone would lie down and never get back up. We were dying."

"Then, my father-your great-grandfather-called a meeting. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow. He said we had to make a choice. A terrible choice. One of us... had to feed the others. To keep the rest alive."

A sudden chill ran down my spine.

I knew exactly what he meant. Cannibalism.

Corrie Holt's POV:

"We drew lots," Grandpa continued, his voice barely a whisper. "My father carved some small wooden tokens. One of them had a crudely drawn X on it. The rest were blank. We sat in a circle around the dying campfire, and everyone reached into a leather pouch."

"It was my turn," Hoover said, his voice choking up. "I was just a kid back then, maybe ten years old. I reached into the bag, my hand shaking uncontrollably. My fingers pinched a token. I pulled it out, and it was blank."

Next was his younger sister Clara; her token was also blank.

Every blank token drawn meant a temporary reprieve, but it also meant the noose tightening around someone else's neck.

"Then it was my mother's turn," he recalled, his voice breaking. "She closed her eyes, her face deathly pale, and pulled out her token. She slowly opened her eyes. There was an X on it."

My great-grandfather, her husband, stood entirely motionless, his face etched with pure agony.

"No!" Hoover cried out, letting out a desperate, childish wail. He pushed past the adults and grabbed his mother's hand. "No, Dad! Please! Don't!"

Tears welled up in my great-grandfather's eyes, but his resolve was forged in iron. He grabbed Hoover's arm, driven mad by starvation. "We have no choice, son. Everyone has to eat."

Hoover fought back wildly, like a feral animal fighting for its life. He kicked and screamed. His mother looked at him, her eyes a heartbreaking mix of love and helpless resignation. "It's going to be okay, my boy. Be strong."

My great-grandfather dragged Hoover's mother toward the chopping block.

He raised the axe. The blade hung suspended in the air. Hoover let out a bloodcurdling scream.

Just then, a loud, urgent knocking rattled the cabin door. Thump. Thump. Thump.

Everyone froze. The axe remained suspended mid-air. All eyes turned toward the door.

Who could it be? No one had visited for weeks. The snow had sealed the roads; it was impossible to get through.

"Who's there?" my great-grandfather shouted, his voice hoarse.

A familiar voice carried through the wooden door: "It's me! Your cousin Elias! I brought supplies!"

A collective gasp sucked the air from the room.

Elias! My great-grandfather's cousin.

A fierce, desperate surge of hope flooded the starving villagers. Shocked, my great-grandfather slowly lowered the axe.

The door swung violently open. Elias stood there, his thick fur coat dusted with snow, carrying a massive burlap sack over his shoulder. "Look what I found! A deer! Freshly caught!"

He tossed the sack onto the floor. It hit the ground with a heavy thud, revealing the carcass of a young deer inside. The room instantly erupted in cheers. They threw themselves at the deer, tearing into it with their bare hands, ripping and biting like a pack of ravenous wolves.

Hoover, still clinging tightly to his mother, watched it all unfold. He was alive. He was safe.

But his relief was painfully fleeting.

He caught a glimpse of Elias. Elias's face was flushed from the cold, his eyes sparkling brightly.

But something felt incredibly wrong.

A subtle, creeping unease.

His smile was too bright, too flawless. His movements were too smooth, too precise. It was too perfect to be a living, breathing human being. Let alone someone living through a famine.

Hoover felt his skin crawl.

He watched Elias join the others, tearing off a chunk of raw venison and swallowing it whole. Hoover felt a wave of nausea. Not just from the memory of the axe, but from Elias himself.

...

"Grandpa," I interrupted, my voice trembling, "what happened to Elias?"

Hoover gripped the armrests of his chair, his knuckles turning white. He closed his eyes, a violent tremor shaking his entire body. "He was a Reptilian, Corrie. That wrong feeling. I sensed it. Even as a kid."

He opened his eyes, his gaze landing on a framed photograph sitting on the mantle.

The photo showed my great-aunt Clara-a sweet, round-faced girl with bright, curious eyes-standing next to a stern-looking man. That was my great-grandfather, Robert. The picture was old and faded, but Elias's face was in it too. He stood right behind Robert, smiling.

With a trembling finger, Hoover pointed at the photograph. "Look closely, Corrie. Look at Elias's face."

I picked up the picture, my hands shaking. I stared at Elias in the photo.

He looked... normal. Handsome, even. A strong jawline, clear eyes.

But as I really focused, as a primal dread began to bubble up from my stomach, I saw it. The unsettling deadness in his eyes. It was a face that was altogether too perfect. An idealized sculpture rather than the imperfect reality of a human being.

My mind screamed. An icy terror washed over me, making my limbs feel heavy as lead. It was a profound, visceral dread.

My body physically rejected the photograph. I wanted to hurl it across the room.

"What is that?" I whispered. "Why... why does it feel like this?"

"Your gut," Hoover said, his voice heavy. "Your instinct knows. It sees right through the disguise. It feels the fundamental difference."

My throat tightened, the image burning itself into my brain. That flawless, smiling face had somehow filled me with overwhelming terror.

"Did they... did they eat Elias?" I asked, my voice hoarse.

I remembered Hoover repeatedly telling me that Reptilian meat was exceptionally delicious.

Was Elias the one he ate?

Hoover sighed, not answering directly. He stared at the faded photo, his eyes completely hollow.

"We were saved that night. But only temporarily. One small deer wasn't nearly enough to get us through the winter."

"The night after Elias arrived, my brother-your great-uncle-came to me. He was just a little boy back then, maybe five. He was shaking all over. He had seen something terrible. He saw Elias... the other Elias."

He closed his eyes again, his face carved with unspeakable agony.

"He saw Elias split open with his own eyes, like some grotesque flower. He saw Elias devour another villager, a woman who had always been kind to us."

"He witnessed the whole thing. The writhing flesh, the maw of teeth, the way the monster consumed her, leaving nothing but a wet stain on the floor. And then, he saw Elias reform, shifting back into his perfect shape, wearing that same smile, just like before."

My stomach churned violently. The imagery was so vivid, so utterly horrifying.

"My brother was deeply traumatized," Hoover continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "He tried to tell the adults, but they brushed it off. They said he was dreaming, that he was having nightmares because of the hunger."

"But we knew. We knew we had to act."

"If we didn't kill Elias, we would all likely die. You know how it is-the elderly, the children, the women, those who can't fight back. Reptilian always start with the easiest prey."

Corrie Holt's POV

Hoover leaned back, his eyes still vacant, lost in the memories of the past.

"That night," he began again, his voice barely audible over the silence, "we huddled in the dark. The kids. My brother, Clara, me, and a few others. We were all just children, but we knew what Elias was. The adults... they were too blind. Too hungry. Too desperate to see the truth."

He described the suffocating silence in the cabin where the Reptilian Elias slept. The only sounds were the rhythmic creaking of the old wooden walls and the Reptilian's faint snoring.

Hoover and his siblings, clutching rusty knives and makeshift clubs, crept soundlessly into the room.

"We were starving too," Hoover admitted, his voice raspy. "But we knew. We knew this was different. This wasn't human flesh. This was... Reptilian meat. We needed it to survive. Not just to fill our bellies, but to fight back."

"My brother was the smallest," Hoover recalled, his eyes locked onto some unseen horror in the corner of the room. "He tried to slip a rope around Elias's ankle. But Elias... he twitched. Just slightly. He made a tiny noise. It was almost a whisper, but it shattered the silence. We all froze. Our hearts stopped beating."

Suddenly, the bedroom door was shoved open. My great-grandfather Robert stood there. "Kids, what are you doing?"

He saw the makeshift weapons. He saw the mimic of Elias, still lying on the cot.

Robert's face instantly went pale.

"No!" Robert shouted, his voice thick with anguish and fear. "Elias! No!"

He rushed forward-not to help the children, but to protect Elias.

Hunger had blinded him; all he saw was his cousin, the man who had brought them food.

"Dad, don't!" Hoover screamed, but it was too late.

The Reptilian moved with a terrifying, unearthly speed.

Its body contorted, its chest ripping open to reveal a gory, gaping maw lined with razor-sharp teeth and writhing flesh.

It lunged at Robert.

A sickening crunch echoed through the room. Robert's screams were abruptly cut short.

The Reptilian began to devour him. Its fleshy, interwoven tentacles wrapped around his body, dragging him into its yawning mouth.

Hoover watched it all, paralyzed by terror.

His father was being eaten. Right in front of his eyes.

His younger brother let out a piercing, desperate shriek.

Clara passed out cold.

The other kids stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide, witnessing the absolute horror.

Hoover described the smell. A stench of copper and blood, mixed with a nauseating, alien musk that hung heavy in the air. The sounds were even worse. Wet tearing noises. Gurgling. The sickening slurp of flesh being sucked away.

The children finally snapped out of their shock, driven by the sheer instinct to survive.

They scrambled out of the cabin, fleeing blindly through the snow-covered forest, their bare feet freezing, their lungs burning.

...

Halfway through the story, Hoover paused, his breathing ragged and uneven.

Suddenly, he clutched his chest, his face contorting in pain. He gasped for air, his breathing rapid and shallow, his eyes rolling back into his head. He was having a heart attack.

I screamed and dialed 911. The paramedics arrived quickly.

Hoover's body was rapidly weakening. His breathing grew shallower by the second. He slowly opened his eyes, meeting my gaze. He reached out a trembling hand and grabbed my arm with unexpected strength.

"Corrie, don't ever get curious about the taste of Reptilian meat. It's dangerous," he rasped, his voice fading to a whisper. "Trust your gut. Your instinct will know before your brain does..."

He squeezed my arm one last time, his eyes empty, delivering his final warning.

Then, his hand went slack and dropped, his eyes glossing over.

He was gone.

The paramedics pronounced him dead. My grandfather, the man who had told these horrifying stories, had passed away.

I stood there frozen, his dying words echoing in my ears: "Your instinct will know before your brain does..."

"Because those who couldn't react in time... are all dead."