Candle Face Victim #13: Beneath the Surface

February 13, 2024

Main Subjects: Candle Face

• Victim #13

I’m sitting in front of my laptop right now. The glow from the screen feels almost hostile as the cursor keeps blinking at me, waiting. I’m shaking so badly it’s hard to type, much less think straight.

I went to bed early, worn out from a day of yardwork and expecting a quiet night for once. The last three weeks had been still, and I had started to think the spirits were giving me space. There had even been some progress. We had a strong lead on Victim #11, and GenX Paranormal Investigations, a team out of the Houston area, was willing to look further into her case. That quiet ended tonight.

I must have just drifted off when I heard the floorboards creak, a sound I now associate with my nocturnal visitors. Before I could even sit up, I saw him. A man standing over me, soaked from head to toe. His hands were ice cold as he pinned my shoulders down. Then he slapped me across the face.

He leaned over me and vomited into my mouth. The taste and the feeling of it were unbearable. I gagged and choked and tried to fight him off, but my strength went fast. Just as I thought I was about to black out, he stopped. Then he slapped me again and left me gasping.

He was furious. Then it hit me why. He was the same spirit who had come to me in late December. I had promised to write down what he told me, but I never did. I put it off. In the weeks after, I only mentioned him briefly during a podcast. He had come back to force me to finish what I should have done the first time.

Here’s his testimony:

The boat rocked lightly on the dark water in the cove. My two sons were on the deck. My wife had stayed behind with relatives, so it was just me and the boys on an overnight boat trip on the west side of Austin. The air was cool, the night was calm, and the city felt far away.

I looked over at my boys and thought about how kids pick up so much from what we tell them. They wanted ghost stories. They wanted something creepy. I never believed in any of that stuff, so I usually brushed it off. Most of the time, I filled their heads with stories about politicians and history because I thought that mattered more.

But one of my sons cut me off while I was in the middle of one of those stories.

“Please, Dad,” he said. “Tell us a ghost story. We’re out here in the dark. We want to hear about Candle Face.”

His younger brother pushed himself up a little, holding his teddy bear and staring at me. I hesitated, then gave in.

“In the heart of Austin,” I began, “there was a legend about Candle Face, a ghost who, people said, hurt anyone who didn’t believe in her. But there was a boy named William who thought it was all made up.”

My sons leaned in. But I didn’t believe any of it.

I kept going. I told them about William walking into the dark creek where Candle Face was supposed to live. The wind over the water sounded louder while I talked. I described the little girl with a face like melted candle wax, and William standing in front of her and saying, “I don’t believe in you, Candle Face.” Then the ghost wailed and vanished, and William walked away unharmed.

When I finished, my sons looked disappointed.

“Dad, that’s not scary,” my oldest said.

“Ghosts aren’t real. Candle Face isn’t real,” I said. “Come on. It’s time for bed.”

Once they settled into their sleeping bags, I couldn’t relax. I knew those waters well, and I got the urge to take a swim. So I slipped into the water. It was cold, and the cove was almost too quiet.

After a minute, I noticed something was wrong. The knot tying my boat to the dock looked loose. I swam hard for the dock.

When I got there, I saw a pair of legs. Small legs. I looked up. A little girl stood there. Her hair hung down in long tangled strands, covering most of her face. When I finally saw her clearly, her face looked like it had been ruined by fire.

It was Candle Face.

Before I could do anything, her hot, clammy hand grabbed my head and shoved me under the water. Panic hit me. I fought to hold my breath, but she was too strong. Just before I passed out, she pulled me back up, and I coughed and choked.

Then she spoke.

“You do not believe. But your life depends on it.”

I was too scared and too confused to do anything but listen while she told me her story. She talked about betrayal, pain, and being left behind. She wanted to be acknowledged. She wanted to be believed.

“Believe in me,” she said. “Believe, for your life depends on it.”

Shaking, I said, “I... I can’t.”

Her grip tightened, and she shoved me under again. I fought for air. I fought to stay awake. She kept pulling me up just long enough to make me suffer, then forcing me back under.

After a while, I started losing strength. She didn’t stop. I had mocked her, and now I was living the story I had told my sons.

At the end, when I had almost nothing left, she held me under and didn’t let me come back up. I felt the cold pull me down, and then everything went black.

When he finished, the spirit looked at me, solemn now. Water dripped from his mouth as he gave me one last warning: “Pay closer attention to your visitors. Another slip-up, and Candle Face will come for you. Her punishment will be far worse than you can imagine.”

Then he turned and disappeared into the portal.

Personal Note to My Readers

This was a grim first. No spirit had ever struck me before. In the past, they had seemed wary of physical contact. This time, I was hit twice and nearly drowned in what I can only describe as ghostly vomit.

Even after that, I’m grateful it didn’t go further. I’ve seen what happens to people who ignore what Candle Face sets in motion, and I know tonight could have been much worse. I took this as a warning. I can’t keep delaying these testimonies.

Candle Face doesn’t leave room for hesitation. From this point on, I need to document every testimony as soon as it happens.

The investigation continues in the three most recent entries below. Each adds to the record on Candle Face (Isabel), the Lost Souls, and the Fugitives. You’ll find every entry to date in The Journal.