Writing Prompt / Story Starter 34

At first, Jack had been convinced the thing was some twisted little urchin’s idea of a toy. But then he'd cut open its belly and something like semi-liquified worms had glistened through the skewed slit of his inexpert incision.

Some small part of him was relieved. If it had proved to be a toy, what little faith he'd had in today's baffling youth would have evaporated in a moment. What kind of child would take pleasure in such a thing? Other than the fact that it was only eight inches long, from lank-haired head to what toes remained, it looked like something exhumed from a mass grave: emaciated, almost skeletal, flesh like filthy wet linen, drawn tight over disproportionate bone. The thought of a child playing with the thing, dressing it, positioning its limbs just so, turning its head this way and that...

(From my short story Nails Without Pictures published in Nocturne)