Candle Face Victim #28: The Torment of Betrayal

April 30, 2024

Main Subjects: Candle Face

• Victim #28

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

Around 4:00 A.M., I heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Assuming it was my son, I didn’t look up at first. Then a woman clearing her throat made me pause. 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 attack me, as others have.

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 that as her signal and began speaking 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 registered. We were going through the motions of a marriage that had gone quiet years before.

“Planning for Christmas shopping?” my husband asked as we sat in a dimly lit restaurant, the clatter of dishes and nearby conversations filling the room. His voice lacked interest, as though the question was 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 said, “Love you too,” and we left 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. I was headed for 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 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 steadying me, like nothing else reached me when I was with him.

But something felt off that night. He was holding me, and his grip was 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, and the shadows on the walls started moving, like they had minds of their own. In the middle of it all, I saw her. She stood there with a twisted grin and empty eyes.

I froze. My boyfriend started chanting in some language I didn’t recognize, his voice shaking as the shadows responded 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 grew so hot I could hardly breathe. And then I heard it, the laughter, low at first, then louder, surrounding me, mocking me. I tried to scream, but my voice caught in my throat. I knew then there was no way out.

I learned later that weeks had passed, and my disappearance was still unexplained. Rumors spread. My husband and boyfriend eventually came 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 answer was cold. “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.

“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, hunting for the words. “Look, death makes you more of what you already were. Nobody magically turns into a saint 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. So when you meet one of us, try to understand who we were.”

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.