Candle Face Victim #30: Candle Face's Congregation

May 20, 2024

Main Subjects: Candle Face

• Victim #30
• Victim #13

I finally put down my phone to prepare for another night on the couch. I walked to the light switch and turned it off. A much darker shadow appeared in the corner when the room went dark. I knew what was next, so I sat down and waited. A short man wearing tattered clothing and a newer hoodie stepped out of the portal and approached me. I could smell his body odor when he became visible. We made eye contact and smiled, and he sat down beside me. He said good evening, then corrected himself with “Good mornin’,” and laughed a little. He seemed so friendly I wanted to chat, but I knew better. After a short pause, he began his story:

I’ve heard folks say that a person’s home is their sanctuary. Well, under the Ben White overpass, among the discarded and the lost, South Austin doesn’t offer much of that. It’s been a rough patch of a life. Me and the other five had our own kind of brotherhood. We stuck together because we had to. What held us even tighter was fear, fear of something much worse than hunger, cold, or violence. Candle Face.

The stories of Candle Face were in every conversation around the fire pit. She was blamed for every misfortune, and people said those who doubted her existence ended up going mad, the kind of mad that lives in the bottom of bottles and at the tips of needles.

“Ever wonder why Kevin never came back?” Jim asked one night. “He doubted. Candle Face got him.”

The group would nod along. “We have to spread the word,” they’d say. “We have to save the souls of the homeless.”

I’d nod too, but my heart was never in it. To me, Candle Face was just a story, something born out of all the misery around us. I refused to believe in her powers. I needed a rational explanation for everything, for our fears and our horrors.

Then she came.

One night, a silhouette appeared by the fire, her eyes hollow. The flames shrank in her presence, trembling as if they too feared her.

“One of you has betrayed me.” Candle Face’s voice was barely audible. Her gaze landed on me. She knew.

She moved closer, and my pretense fell away. She didn’t kill me. She turned to the others.

“This one shall be your warning,” she said before vanishing into the fire pit.

My brothers, the ones I’d shared every hardship with, looked at me differently now. There was no warmth in their eyes anymore, only fear and reverence. They believed I’d been marked, spared for a purpose.

Days passed, and the divide between us grew. They treated me like I was cursed, tainted, and somehow still alive. Nights were worse. Shadows watched me from every corner, and the cold mocked our feeble fire. Their belief in Candle Face deepened.

Then it came.

We gathered around the fire pit under the overpass. The flames threw jagged shadows on the concrete walls. This time, their eyes were hard and set.

Candle Face appeared again, her flaming eyes fixed on us. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. The others rose, one by one, slow and deliberate. I knew what was coming.

They came at me with fists raised, like men carrying out an order. Every strike landed with purpose. Every blow was for Candle Face. Their grunts and gasps mixed with the crackling fire.

Pain exploded across my body, and I fell to the ground. They didn’t stop. Each hit felt like punishment for my disbelief. Their anger, their misery, it all came down on me.

As my breath slowed and my vision dimmed, I saw her. Candle Face stood over us, watching in silence. Her eyes burned brighter, and for a moment, I thought I heard her voice.

“Believe,” she said, the word sounding like an order.

And then everything went blank.

Personal Note to My Readers

For the first time in seven months of documenting these testimonies, a spirit named other people in their own death. Until now, the encounters were nearly anonymous, the stories stripped of personal identifiers. The closest thing to an exception was the name William, tucked inside Victim #13’s ghost story, and I believe that was the spirit naming himself. Kevin and Jim are different. Kevin was a victim I never met. Jim was one of the victim’s killers. That suggests a shift, or maybe a stronger need in these spirits to be known and remembered.

Names bring histories and connections. If this is the start of a new phase, I expect more names and details to follow.

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.