Candle Face Victim #30: Candle Face's Congregation

May 20, 2024

Main subjects:

• Victim #30

• Candle Face

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 room’s corner when the room went dark. I knew what was next, so I sat on the couch 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, 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 in 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, his eyes haunted. “He doubted. Candle Face got him.”

The group would nod along. They spoke of Candle Face. “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 glowing like embers. The flames seemed to shrink 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. I was the disbeliever, the one who pretended to go along while secretly doubting her.

She moved closer, and I felt the weight of her gaze strip away my pretense. She saw right through me. She didn’t kill me. She turned to the others.

“This one shall be your warning,” she said before vanishing into the burning 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, still alive, and tainted. Nights were worse. Shadows watched me from every corner, and the cold mocked our feeble fire. The others’ belief in Candle Face deepened, and I became an outsider among them.

Then it came.

We gathered around the fire pit under the overpass. The flames danced wildly, their light casting jagged shadows on the concrete walls. This time, their eyes were hard. 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. Their movements were slow and deliberate, their expressions unyielding. 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 and for everything they had endured. 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 the testimonies of the Lost Souls, names emerged. That is a real break in the pattern. Until now, these encounters were anonymous, their stories stripped of personal identifiers. The names Kevin and Jim change that. Jim was one of the victim’s killers. That suggests a shift, or maybe a stronger need on the part of these spirits to be known and remembered.

As I write this journal entry, I want you to understand the significance of the moment. Kevin and Jim’s names may mark the beginning of a new phase, where the Lost Souls start sharing more than their ghostly presence. Names bring histories and connections. With these first names, I expect more names and details to follow. That may become the new pattern as the spirits’ stories grow less obscure.