Candle Face Victim #15: Return to the Water's Edge

February 21, 2024

Main Subjects: Candle Face

• Victim #15

Another soaked Lost Soul came to me. It started with the sound of wet footsteps and water dripping onto my face, which jolted me awake. The moment I opened my eyes, he snapped, “Wake up, we’re doing this now.”

Still half asleep, I forced myself to sit up and rubbed my eyes. He stared at me hard. “You ready yet?” he asked. I nodded because I didn’t know what else to do. He went straight into his story:

Downtown Austin at night isn’t for the weak, and I lived on the edges of it, in the places most people avoided. Being homeless meant staying cut off from the rest of the world. Survival didn’t leave much room for anything else. Days and nights ran together, and there wasn’t much to laugh about. Mocking things, though, that came easy. It was my armor against how bad things really were.

The stories about Candle Face, that ghost child, always made the rounds among the homeless. To me, they were just entertainment. I laughed at anybody who believed in her. Some burned-up kid haunting people because they didn’t believe in ghosts? It sounded stupid.

I had a spot near Town Lake [Lady Bird Lake], under Congress Avenue, where I could be alone and away from the chaos downtown. It was my quiet corner, and I didn’t have to hear people talk about Candle Face like she was real. I made fun of them every chance I got.

“Why waste time on that nonsense?” I would say, shaking my head. “A ghost kid? Come on, we’ve got real problems.”

But one night, when fog started rolling over Town Lake, something shut me up fast. A small figure stepped out of the mist. Her face was burned so badly it barely looked human.

“Why do you mock my pain?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it carried all around me. There was a sorrow in it that didn’t belong to a child.

I tried to brush it off. “You’re not real. You’re just some story people made up to scare each other.” I even laughed, telling myself maybe I’d had too much to drink.

But she kept coming closer. The air turned hot, and I couldn’t pretend anymore. “I am as real as the suffering you live with every day,” she said. “So why do you mock those who believe in me?”

I didn’t know what to say. I shrugged and acted like I didn’t care. “It’s easier to laugh than to believe in ghost stories.”

She tilted her head and looked at me like she knew more about me than I wanted her to. “You know what it feels like to be invisible, to go unheard. So why deny others their belief?”

“Belief doesn’t put food in my stomach or keep me warm at night,” I snapped.

After that, she started showing up every night. Whether I wanted to see her or not, she was there. Each time I mocked her, she seemed more real. Other people noticed too. They talked about me, saying I was losing my mind. “He’s taunting her,” they said. “She’s going to get him.”

And they were right.

The night it ended, she was waiting by the edge of Town Lake, half hidden in the fog. “Your mockery ends tonight,” she said, her voice carrying over the water.

I felt heat in my chest, like something had grabbed my heart. “What are you going to do to me?” I asked, and my voice shook.

“You will see,” she said. “It is time you understood the cost of your ridicule.”

Before I could move, the ground beneath me gave way, and I went straight into the lake. The water was freezing. I fought to reach the surface, but something kept pulling me down.

I saw her under the water. Her burned face was right in front of mine, her empty eyes fixed on me.

“Why?” I managed to choke out.

“Your mockery brought you here,” she said, her voice calm and final. “You denied others their pain. Now you will face your own.”

I tried to scream, but the water swallowed me. Everything went dark, and the last thing I saw was her fading away and leaving me alone in the cold.

They found my body the next day floating near the shore. The news talked about another drowning in Town Lake. Everyone on the street believed Candle Face was responsible.

He finished his story and made a move like he was about to backhand me. I flinched, and he laughed, enjoying it. Then he did it again. This time, I didn’t flinch. I stood up and shoved him. To my surprise, my hands hit his chest. It was the first time I had ever touched one of the Lost Souls. His eyes widened, and he let out a horrible, waterlogged gasp. I stepped forward and shoved him again, forcing him back toward the portal. Once he saw I meant it, he backed away and disappeared into it.

Personal Note to My Readers

Once he was gone, I ended up right back at my computer, feeling like I had to write down everything he said. But as I sat there looking at the screen, one question kept bothering me: why should I tell this spirit’s story at all? The truth is, I don’t feel any sympathy for him. A part of me thinks he deserves to stay in Candle Face’s Lair. My first reaction was anger, and if I’m being honest, some satisfaction at shoving him back. Looking back, I think I should have done more than that.

Even so, I’m writing it down. Maybe that comes from responsibility. Maybe it comes from trying to make sense of him and Candle Face and the way they connect. Whether I like it or not, this story still needs to be told.

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.