Candle Face Victim #16: A Waitress’ Last Walk Home

March 1, 2024

Main Subjects: Candle Face

• Victim #16

I used to go to bed early every night, hoping a Lost Soul would show up. Lately, though, they’ve become more aggressive. Some have even attacked me. The rush I once felt is gone. This is a responsibility now. I know I have to help them, whatever that ends up costing me.

Tonight, while I was working in my garage, the door lifted on its own. First, I saw a pair of legs. Then a bluish miniskirt. Then a white T-shirt stretched over a slim frame, topped by long blond hair. This spirit wasn’t waiting for me to go to bed. Once she stepped inside, the garage door shut behind her.

She started to speak, but I cut her off and asked, “Can I ask you something?” She looked stunned. So was I. It was the first time I had tried speaking directly to one of these nighttime visitors. I’d offered my hand before, and they always pulled away. In a shaky voice, she answered, “I can’t answer questions.” Knowing what might happen to her when she went back through the portal, I didn’t press it. “Okay,” I said, and she continued, pacing through the garage as she told me what happened.

Working as a waitress on Sixth Street in Austin was always chaos, late nights, loud crowds, and no shortage of stories. One that kept coming up was Candle Face. People said she was the ghost of a little girl who went after anyone who didn’t believe in her. I had heard all of it before, locals talking, tourists trying to scare each other, and I never gave it much thought. To me, it was just another story.

At least that’s what I thought.

The night it happened started like any other shift. I was pouring drinks, clearing tables, and catching pieces of conversations as I moved through the room. People were talking about Candle Face again. Some of the regulars described her as a vengeful spirit with a burned face who punished doubters. I laughed with one of the men at the bar and said, “If Candle Face is real, I guess I’m next!”

I didn’t think about it again as I walked home later that night. The streets were quiet. Then the air around me turned hot, far hotter than it should have been. That was when I saw her.

She stepped out of the shadows, a small figure not much taller than a child, her face badly disfigured. Her voice cut through the silence. “You mock what you do not understand.”

I froze. My heart was pounding. “W-w-who are y-y-you?” I got out, even though I already knew.

“I am the truth,” she said. “The belief you scorn.”

I could see her clearly now. Her face was charred and misshapen, like something out of a nightmare. I wanted to tell myself I was seeing things.

“You... you’re not real,” I shouted, my voice shaking.

She moved closer. “Your disbelief gives me strength,” she hissed. “Your mockery invites your end.”

I tried to run, but I couldn’t move. It felt like hands were holding me in place. Her laughter filled the street. “You wanted proof? Now you will be part of my story.”

And that was the end of it.

The next week, the bar was full of rumors about me. I had vanished without a trace. My coworkers were confused, and the last person to see me, the regular I had joked with, kept talking about how I had laughed at the Candle Face story just hours before.

Now they tell my story the same way they used to tell hers. My joke turned into a warning for anyone who thinks they’re safe. And it doesn’t matter whether you believe yet. She’ll make you believe.

If I can tell you one thing, Ray, it’s this: don’t laugh at her. Don’t doubt her. Believe, even if it’s only to keep yourself alive.

She thanked me for listening, and I managed to say quietly, “You’re welcome.” She looked startled, as if she still couldn’t believe we had spoken to each other out loud. Then the garage door opened again, and she slipped out. I ran to my computer and wrote down everything I could before any of it faded.