Sorry to be so late chiming in. What a creepy little story!
For sure, the man was the killer.
My argument for him being the killer...
Look under the seat for my flashlight, boy.”
He bends forward, grabbing under the seat, and his head is turned from me. But I am way too tired now, and I don’t want to clean the seat.
I don't want to clean the seats, which earlier he said were vinyl and cold but easy to clean.
And he absolutely fed the hitchhikers to the pigs. And, his son. I think so...
I ought to feed them better than that awful slop, but I can’t until I know my boy is safe. I told him not to go and look, that the hogs just squeal because I never kill them. They always squeal when they are happy, but he went and looked. Then he ran off someplace.
He either fed his son to the pigs because he found out what dear old dad was doing, or maybe he did run off. Either way, I think this means the son found out.
And then the last paragraph. I think he fed himself to the pigs.
I pull up beside my house. My hogs run from their shelter in the backyard and grunt at me. I stand by my plow and look at the first rims of light around Sewel Mountain through the snowy limbs of the trees. Cars hiss by on the clean road. The kitchen light still burns, and I know the house is empty. My hogs stare at me, snort beside their trough. They are waiting for me to feed them, and I walk to their pen.
Great story, Doc. Another new author for me.