Stocking Face

Once, when I was small, my father pulled a stocking over his face. He was pretending to be a burglar of the kind we'd seen on the telly – the kind who pull stockings over their faces and disguise themselves so completely that they can get away with anything.
I didn't think a stocking would be a good disguise. They looked so flimsy and transparent. I thought anyone would be able to recognise a burglar so stupid as to wear a stocking and imagine he could go about unrecognised.
So my father offered to show how a stocking worked. He found an odd one belonging to my mother. It was beige and lifeless, like a long old dribble, without her leg inside.
My father stretched the stocking out and began to pull it over his head. First he dragged it over his hair, then down to his brow and across his eyes. It stuck on his ears and had to be wrenched, then covered his nose, and his mouth, and his chin, until there was a stocking-covered father-face and a soft wriggling stocking-foot like a tassel at the top of his head.
Something terrible had happened. The stocking had melted my father. His nose was crushed flat and boneless. His eyes were wiped shut. His mouth was smeared down his chin, lips stiff and pale.
Then the mouth spoke with a muffled, laughing father-voice that said 'boo' and 'woooo' and other scary, jokey words that reminded me of words I was meant to laugh at.
He was still in there somewhere, hidden beneath the monster-skin, still laughing and talking, without the slightest awareness of the danger he was in, with this skin stretched all around his face. I didn't know how to warn him.
And suddenly, as I watched, the monster consumed him and he was gone, vanished inside this smearing, stretching horror which leered and lurched, had eaten his quiet voice and was using it for its own 'boos' and 'wooos' with a terrible sickly enjoyment.
I can't remember the rest. I think I turned and ran. We got him back soon after, but he has never been quite the same.