The patchwork pig was a family heirloom, passed down from one generation to the next. It sat, fat and happy, at the foot of each firstborn male, as if guarding the crib.
It brought the family luck, health and prosperity, but it came with a price.
It needed to feed.
Jack Herringford stood beside his father’s coffin, blood dripping from his knife. The incision had been made quickly; the pig inserted, without fuss, into the opening.
Jack turned from the sound of chewing. His son was sleeping in his stroller, unaware of his grandfather’s desecration.
One day he would understand.
Author’s Note: The inspiration for this was simple – what was the least scary thing that I could convincingly work into a horror story? A child’s stuffed toy seemed to fit the bill.