He Came Back Wrong

Eight years ago, my father died in a hit-and-run. I buried him. Last week, I saw him again, lurking in the shadows of my childhood home. Now, he's followed me back. He stands in the dark, just outside the light, wearing my father's face but with a smile that's too wide and eyes that glow. This thing isn't my father's ghost; it's a predator wearing his memory as a mask, and it's hunting me. The light keeps it at bay, but for how long? Every flicker, every shadow, brings it closer to my bed.