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.
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.