Candle Face Victim #29: The Believer Who Doubted

May 12, 2024

Main Subjects: Candle Face

• Victim #29

As I settled onto the couch, the day’s worries began to lift, if only slightly. Something made me open my eyes, and when I did, I noticed shadows flickering against the far wall, like the dim light had suddenly become shy. That’s when I saw him, my next Lost Soul.

He appeared near the window, his form vague and shimmering. He stood there watching me, like he was trying to figure out how I’d react. I sat up, and he walked over and sat beside me. The moment my eyes met his, he began.

I first heard the stories of Candle Face on the corner of Congress Avenue and Sixth Street in Austin. A group of fellow homeless folks were gathered around a light post and bench, their eyes haunted as they spoke about a ghostly girl who hunted down anyone who dared to laugh at her existence. I didn’t buy it for a second, so I pushed for more.

The group was led by a woman with piercing blue eyes who talked about Candle Face with fear and reverence. She said the ghost was once a young girl who died in a horrible fire, her face left disfigured. Now, she roamed Austin’s streets, punishing skeptics who didn’t take her story seriously.

I couldn’t help myself. I laughed and called it nonsense. “A ghost that attacks non-believers?” I mocked. “Come on.”

Her expression turned cold. “Mock her, and you’ll see for yourself,” she warned. “But you’ll regret it. The cost will be more than you can imagine.”

That night, under Interstate 35, I lay in my tent trying to forget her words. Then I heard it, a faint, childlike voice calling my name. My heart pounded. I sat up, and there she was.

Candle Face.

She was horrifying, her face charred and twisted, her eyes hollow and lifeless. She just stood there, staring at me. In her hand, she rolled a needle between her burnt fingers, like she was deciding what to do with it.

“Come with me,” she said in a small, sad voice.

The world around me shifted. Austin was gone, replaced by some nightmarish version of itself, a city twisted by fire. As I followed her, she spoke, her voice sliding between innocent and commanding. “I want believers who will embrace my story, spread it, make it part of their lives.”

She told me that, to those who believed, she was their guardian, offering comfort to people drowning in their pain. “For those who have faith in me,” she said, her voice softening, “I am their light, their hope. A way out of their daily suffering.”

But her tone hardened when she talked about skeptics. “For those who deny me, I am the thing they fear most,” she said flatly. “Mock me, and you will see what happens.”

She told me belief and fear fed her. Every story, every ounce of doubt, every mocking laugh made her stronger. “I am born of reverence and ridicule,” she said. “Every skeptic who denies me only adds to my power.”

She made it clear why she’d chosen me. I was supposed to be her messenger, her voice in the world of the living. One minute she threatened me. The next she pleaded for my help. “Tell my story,” she said. “Make them remember me, and I will offer you a warning, and maybe salvation.”

I begged her to let me go, swearing I’d believe, that I’d tell people about her. She laughed, a sound so loud it made my ears hurt. Then I was back in my tent, drenched in sweat. But her laughter still echoed in my head.

The next day, I felt different. All my usual pains, the constant headaches, the aches from years of drinking and drug use, the mental fog, all of it was gone. I felt lighter than I had in years. It was enough to make me seek out that group I’d mocked the day before.

They welcomed me back, no questions asked. They could see the change in me. As I listened to their stories, it came out that they’d all had their own encounters with Candle Face. Each one was disturbing in its own way, and they had all chosen to believe. They’d become her disciples, spreading her story to keep others from facing her wrath.

I joined them. Night after night, we roamed the streets, telling her story to anyone who’d listen. We thought we were doing the right thing, that maybe we could save others. Even as I spread her message, I couldn’t stop questioning it. Was Candle Face real? Or was she just a reflection of our fears, something we’d created ourselves?

That doubt is what got me killed.

Then one night, she came to me again. In my dream, her face was even more grotesque than before. She leaned in close and hissed, “You lost faith.”

Before I could speak, her hands were on me. Her charred fingers clamped down on my mouth and nose, cutting off my breath. Her skin was rough, like burnt wood, and the smell of scorched flesh filled the air.

I tried to fight, to scream, but she wouldn’t let go. Her hollow eyes stared into mine with cruel satisfaction. Around us, shadows pulsed and shouted in a language I couldn’t understand.

The edges of my vision faded, and my heart slowed. I knew, too late, that Candle Face was real.

When everything went dark, I felt the cold sting of a needle in my arm, like she wanted me to remember the life I’d tried so hard to leave behind.

The Lost Soul stood up and walked toward the portal in the far corner of the room. His movements were slow, almost hesitant. As he neared it, his shadow stretched out behind him, and I noticed the needle still sticking out of his arm.

He paused at the portal’s edge and looked back at me. There was sadness in his eyes and a kind of acceptance. Then, without a word, he stepped through. The portal vanished, and the room was silent again, lit only by the soft glow from the kitchen light.

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.