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.