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."

Corrie Holt's POV

At the funeral, the black suits and hushed whispers blended into a blurry haze.

Then, I saw him.

Braden Holt. My cousin.

He was standing on the edge of the crowd. It had been ten years since I last saw him, yet somehow, he looked exactly the same.

He had been living in Japan and was always a distant figure in our family. His return was completely unexpected.

He caught me looking at him. He smiled. A warm, inviting smile.

But my mind screamed.

A wave of pure, unfiltered terror washed over me.

It was the exact same feeling I had when Hoover showed me the photograph of "Elias."

My stomach tightened into a knot, bile rose in my throat, and goosebumps erupted across my skin. My legs turned to jelly, barely able to hold my weight. It was an icy dread, fundamentally different from any natural fear. It bypassed my brain entirely, striking directly at my most primal instincts.

This was not a normal reaction.

It was instinct.

Braden started walking toward me. He moved with a graceful, unhurried elegance. He looked like a magazine model.

Despite the passing years, his face retained a boyish charm, yet possessed an unsettling, perfect symmetry.

Perfect. Too perfect.

That subtle incongruity Hoover had described—the feeling I had brushed off as a child—was now hitting me like a blaring siren.

My mind raced, desperately trying to rationalize.

It's just Braden. He just hasn't aged much. He's always been handsome.

But my body refused to listen. Every single nerve ending was screaming danger. My heart pounded against my ribs like it was trapped in a cage of terror.

Braden stopped in front of me, his smile radiant. "Corrie, it's been a long time."

He reached out to grab my hand. Instinctively, I flinched and pulled away. My body moved entirely on its own.

He paused. His smile froze for a fraction of a second, a tiny crack appearing in his flawless mask. Then, the smile returned, calm and unwavering.

"Oh, Corrie," he chuckled softly, withdrawing his hand. "I see you're still the same shy girl."

My mother, Cherise, walked over. She was a warm, bubbly woman, and she pulled Braden into a tight hug. "Braden, honey! Look at you! Still as handsome as ever! The girls in Japan must be all over you!"

She hugged him tightly. Braden hugged her back, that same smile plastered on his face.

I stood there shivering. She couldn't see it. She couldn't feel it.

That night, I had a nightmare.

Braden was there, standing in my bedroom. His face was completely immobile, but his eyes glinted with an eerie light. He didn't say a word; he just stared at me. Then, his chest began to heave, a sickening rippling motion visible beneath his shirt. The fabric stretched, then tore open, revealing a gory, gaping maw filled with razor-sharp teeth and writhing meat. He reached out to grab me, his perfect hands morphing into long, clawed tentacles. I screamed, but no sound came out. The vision was utterly horrifying, visceral, and incredibly real.

I woke up in a cold sweat, gasping for air.

The room was pitch black, but the memory of the nightmare clung to me like a burial shroud.

I forced myself to sit up, my heart hammering like a drum. That wasn't just a dream. It was a warning.

Braden was here. In our house. He was staying with us because my mother insisted he be comfortable. He was right down the hall.

My grandfather's dying words echoed in my head: "Your instinct will know before your brain does."

Braden was a Reptilian.

A nightmare creature was sleeping in our guest room right now.

The stories were true.

All of it. My grandfather's trauma, and the taste of the meat. It was all real.

The mere thought of my grandfather's description of Reptilian meat made my mouth water.

I got out of bed, my movements stiff. I needed answers. I needed to understand.

My grandfather's notebook. He had left behind a small, leather-bound journal, filled with his messy handwriting and strange doodles.

One entry caught my eye: "Tells. Humans shift, fidget, leak emotions. Reptilian, they do it too perfectly. They lack those subtle, unconscious micro-movements. They are posed statues, not living people."

I stared at those words, a chill settling into my bones as the terror flooded back.

The stillness. It was true. Braden had that unsettling stillness about him. His perfection. It was nothing but a mask.

But how could I see the truth without exposing myself? How could I prove it? My mind raced, trying to piece it all together.

Reptilian were real. Braden was a Reptilian.

Grandpa had said: "Your instinct will know before your brain does. Because those who couldn't react in time... are all dead..."

My gut was telling me Braden was wrong; that he was a Reptilian.

But.

What if I was wrong? What if Braden was just human?

The thought made my blood run cold.

I would be trying to murder a human being!