But the shape didn’t disappear.
A crocodile lay at the foot of her steps.
It was enormous. Dark. Breathing slow, labored breaths, its sides rising and falling as if each one cost effort. It didn’t lunge. It didn’t move. It simply lay there, heavy and exhausted, like something dragged out of a nightmare and dropped into her quiet street.
Later, people would talk about storms and broken fences, about a private exotic sanctuary not far away. But in that moment, none of that existed.
What she felt wasn’t fear.
It was pity.
“Oh, you poor thing…” she murmured, her voice shaking. “You must be starving.”
She didn’t think of sirens. Didn’t reach for the phone. In her mind, the creature wasn’t a predator—it was something lost. Something suffering.
She shuffled back inside, heart pounding, and gathered whatever she could find: leftovers from Halloween, scraps wrapped in foil, chunks of raw meat pulled from the fridge with trembling hands. Her movements were slow, careful, almost reverent.
When she returned to the porch, the crocodile lifted its head.
Its eyes caught the light.
For a brief, terrifying second, time stood still.
Then, with a hand that wouldn’t stop shaking, the elderly woman tossed the food a few feet away, retreating as if she were feeding a stray dog instead of a creature built to kill.
She didn’t know it then—but that single act of kindness would change everything.
And by the next morning, the entire neighborhood would wish she had never opened that door.
The crocodile ate greedily, loudly snapping its jaws, and then, sated, slowly turned and crawled away into the darkness without even glancing at her. The woman stood on the porch for a long time, convincing herself it was all over.
She barely slept that night, but in the morning, seeing no traces, she decided it had been a strange but kind adventure. She even felt a sense of pride—not everyone could help such a creature and remain unharmed.
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