After I Killed a Pig, My Whole Family Dropped Dead

My entire family was wiped out.

All because I killed a pig.

My father died beside the pigpen, blood flowing from all seven orifices.

My mother died in front of the stove, scalded from head to toe by a pot of boiling water.

My older brother died on the road to town when his three-wheeled vehicle toppled into a ditch. His neck was bent at an impossible angle.

As for me, when they found me, I was sitting in the middle of the courtyard, clutching a pig's head and repeating the same words over and over:

"I killed it. I shouldn't have killed it."

That night, the pig's vengeful spirit came for me.

Consumed by endless regret and sheer terror, I was scared stiff. I collapsed in the courtyard and drew my last breath.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back three days earlier.

The courtyard gate was shoved open with a bang.

The pig farmer stood at my door, leading a live pig with a white head, no tail, and five toes on each foot.

"This pig's cursed. Nobody dares take it. Will your family buy it?"

I stared at the pig in the doorway, my blood turning ice-cold.