Norman tended his garden night and day. Everything he planted bloomed beautifully, and it was widely regarded that his skill enflamed his energy, pushing him on, despite his advancing years.
From his kitchen table, Norman watched himself coming in from his labours. The double collapsed to the floor. Its green eyes were already losing their lustre – in a day or two it would only be good for compost.
Norman grabbed the secateurs. With a small cry, he cut off another finger, planting it into a pot. He’d be out and about again soon enough – or, rather, something very like him.
Author’s Note: I like stories like this – no rhyme or reason for the creepy element to work, or even exist. Not even an in-universe justification for it. Why can this man grow clones of himself? Because that’s what the story says he can do.