Candle Face Victim #28: The Torment of Betrayal

April 30, 2024

Main subjects:

• Victim #28

• Candle Face

Retirement offers its share of surprises. Some days, I find myself occupied with household chores. Other days, I’m lost in endless scrolling on Facebook and YouTube. Today was one of those days. I must’ve spent 12 hours lounging on my couch in my boxers, watching video after video.

Around 4:00 a.m., I heard footsteps descending the stairs. Assuming it was my son, I didn’t look up at first. Then, the sound of a woman clearing her throat made me pause. It seemed she wanted to be noticed. Glancing up, I saw a woman in her early thirties with a man’s tie knotted tightly around her neck. I wondered if this spirit would attempt to attack me, as others have in the past.

Sensing she had a story to tell, I sat up and pulled out my notebook filled with paranormal investigation forms, ready to document her testimony. She took this as her signal to begin and spoke in a scratchy, high-pitched voice.

Our conversations had become so repetitive, I could predict every word before he said it. Each day felt like a rerun of the last. Same phrases. Same lifeless kisses that barely even registered. We were stuck in this endless loop, going through the motions of a marriage that had long since lost its spark.

“Planning for Christmas shopping?” my husband asked as we sat in a dimly lit restaurant, the clatter of dishes and the sounds of nearby conversations filling the room. His voice lacked genuine interest, as though the question was merely a line in an overused script.

I dipped my fingers into my purse and pulled out my lipstick with a practiced motion. Without making eye contact, I replied, “Trying to beat the holiday rush.”

We rose from our seats at the same time. “Love you,” he said, a phrase that felt as hollow as the restaurant on a Tuesday night.

I replied, “Love you too,” and we exited the restaurant, his hand slipping into mine out of habit. I drove him back to work, our conversation drifting into silence, broken only by the sound of traffic.

Once he closed the car door behind him, I sped away, driven by an urgency only I could understand. My destination was a small, plain apartment in North Austin. It wasn’t much. It had become my escape. My boyfriend was thoughtful, passionate, and alive in a way I hadn’t felt in years. He made me laugh. He challenged me. He reminded me I could feel something other than numb.

When I walked in, the familiar smell of his cologne hit me first, musky, with just a hint of the old books he loved to read. “Finally,” he said, pulling me into a hug. His voice had this way of grounding me, like nothing else mattered when I was with him.

But something felt off that night. He was holding me, and his grip felt different. When I pulled back to look at him, his eyes were glossy, like he was about to cry.

“You shouldn’t have ridiculed her,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“Who?” I asked.

Then the room changed. A hot breeze swept through the room, and the shadows on the walls started moving, almost like they had minds of their own. In the middle of it all, I saw her. A figure standing there, her grin twisted and her eyes empty.

I froze. My boyfriend started chanting in some language I didn’t recognize, his voice shaking as the shadows seemed to respond to him.“

Why are you doing this?” I asked, my voice breaking.

His face crumpled. “She requires devotion, and you don’t have it. I don’t have a choice.”

The air in the room grew so hot I felt like I couldn’t breathe. And then, I heard it. The laughter. Low at first, then louder, surrounding me, mocking me. I tried to scream, but my voice got caught in my throat. I knew then there was no way out.

I learned later that weeks had passed, and my absence remained unexplained. Rumors about my disappearance swirled. My husband and boyfriend eventually found themselves face-to-face in a secluded bar on the outskirts of Austin.

Taking a gulp from his drink, my boyfriend broke the silence. “I didn’t ask for this,” he admitted.

My husband’s response was cold, devoid of remorse. “It was either her or us.”

“Faith has power,” my boyfriend said, staring at the swirling patterns in his glass. “Doubt gets you killed.”

The woman tugged at the tie around her neck, grimacing as it tightened. Her eyes met mine, and her expression held pain and understanding.

“Don’t let this discourage you,” she said, her voice softer now. “Most of us aren’t like that. If you’re a jerk in life, you’re a jerk in death too. That doesn’t change. The good ones, the ones who were kind and gave a damn, stay that way too.”

She paused, maybe trying to put into words what she wanted me to understand. “Look, death amplifies who we are. People who were kind when they were alive keep doing it after. They become the kind of spirits who want to guide and help. People who were selfish, angry, or cruel don’t magically turn into saints just because they’re dead.”

She gestured to the faint shimmer of the portal in the corner of the room. “You’ll meet all kinds. Some of us bring misery, sure. Some of us just want to help where we can. So when you meet one of us, try to see who we were.”