My son went missing two weeks ago.
Like a good parent, I filed a police complaint. I participated in the search efforts and I was heartbroken when they could not find any trace of him.
I gave up. I asked the cops to give up too. It was hopeless, I said.
They did not give up.
One week ago, two of the officers turned up at my door. Triumphant smiles on their faces. And standing in front of them, was my son.
They said they found him wandering in the woods beyond the edge of town.
He looked much worse for the wear, but otherwise unscathed.
They left him with me and went back to the station.
He is not my son!
He looked like my son, spoke like my son, and even behaved like my son. He settled in with me. But please, believe me, he's not my son!
Every night since that day, I've woken up in the middle of the night in cold sweat. I always see him in the doorway of my room. His body silhouetted by the night light behind him.
He always leaves as soon as I wake up.
Please, you have to trust me. Whatever he is, he is not my son!
Why do I seem so sure?
Because I killed my son two weeks ago. And buried him in the forest.