Candle Face Victims #40 and #41: The Rancher and His Wife

October 6, 2024

Main Subjects: Candle Face

• Victim #40
• Victim #41

The late-night Dallas Cowboys-Pittsburgh Steelers game had me wound up, so I couldn’t sleep. I lay down, but nothing. I tried counting sheep, reading a terms-and-conditions agreement word for word, and even watching a video on different types of rocks, but nothing helped. Not even a hint of drowsiness. So I sat up to do some breathing exercises and clear my mind. Since I couldn’t sleep, I figured I might as well try to call on a Lost Soul, even though I had never attempted to call one forward before. They come when they want to, not when you summon them.

I had learned some basic mediumship techniques online, piecing together a method that was promising. After making a few adjustments to suit my style, I prepared myself for the session. First, I visualized a white light filling the room, a common protective measure recommended for these kinds of spiritual encounters. Next, I focused on deepening my breathing, counting to five on each inhale and exhale. With my eyes closed, I mentally projected an invitation, almost like throwing a lasso of energy into the void, and then waited, imagining that energy spreading out and drawing in anyone willing to communicate.

I’d read that summoning spirits could be dangerous, but I felt an odd sense of calm. Maybe it was because I didn’t think it would actually work. Or maybe it was because, deep down, I wanted to see if I could do it.

After about ten minutes, the shadows in the living room began to darken, thickening like smoke, and the kitchen lights started flickering. Then, almost as if crossing a line, an old man stepped into my living room. He took a few cautious steps toward me, then stopped. He turned back to the shadow and beckoned, as if inviting someone to follow him.

An elderly woman then stepped out of the shadow and joined him. They both walked toward me, stopping when I scooted over to make room for them to sit.

“We’re fine right here,” the old man said in a slight Spanish accent, his voice steady but soft.

“How can I help y’all?” I asked, keeping my voice gentle.

“Ray, I want you to listen to our story. And only listen; take no action.”

“OK,” I responded. I wanted to ask why they wouldn’t want me to take action, but I figured I’d understand as they spoke.

“We used to live in a small town east of Austin nearly 50 years ago. I’m originally from Mexico, but moved to Texas when I was a young man, around 20 years old. I made my money as a ranch hand until I saved enough to buy my own ranch and hire my own ranch hands. I remember living in Mexico and hearing stories of a once-beautiful little girl who was killed in a fire and now roams the earth looking to be remembered because people have forgotten her. My friends and I used to tell stories about her, probably adding things of our own, trying to one-up each other. After a while, we didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t. In the end, we all believed, and that’s what counts.”

“Is the little girl you’re talking about Candle Face?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered in a matter-of-fact tone, as if I didn’t even need to ask.

“Is Candle Face from Mexico?”

“You tell me, Mr. Investigator,” he responded in a nasty tone, while the lady nudged him.

“Be nice,” she said.

“We’re here to tell you about the circumstances of our deaths,” the old man went on.

“OK, tell me whatever you want to tell me.”

“I met my wife about 20 years after I settled in Texas from Mexico. She wasn’t my first wife, and I have children from previous marriages. I talked a lot about my time in Mexico to my wife, especially stories about who you call Candle Face. At first, my wife didn’t believe, but she came around. For the next few decades, things went well. We kept our faith in her, and she made sure our health was strong. We even talked to people in town about her loving ways, but most would just laugh. We were the crazies down the dirt road. Anyway, my wife started to lose her way and stopped talking about her. She didn’t even want to listen to my stories anymore.

“Eventually, my wife started to hear noises in her head, which turned into voices. These voices...”

I interrupted him and asked her to continue with the story.

She looked at me and smiled. “Thank you, Ray. At least someone lets me talk.”

“These voices were incoherent. I never was able to understand them.”

I saw this as a chance to use some remote viewing to “listen in” on what she had heard back then. I didn’t think it would work, but I closed my eyes and focused on the memory. I imagined my consciousness slipping back in time and attaching itself to her presence, as if I were standing beside her when it happened. As I looked deeper, I felt a faint ringing in my ears, then a low hum of static. Slowly, words began to filter through.

“… why did you do it … why did you leave her … she’s coming … you can’t run … you’re too weak … she remembers … it’s your fault … her eyes are burning … you’re the reason … why didn’t you stop her … her face … you’re the reason she’s like this … end it with a knife …”

The voices ran together into a rush of overlapping screams. I tried to make sense of them as the pressure built, dozens of voices yelling at once, each fighting to be heard.

“You can’t hide … she’s watching … you’ll see her face again … forever … it’s all your fault …”

I pulled myself back abruptly, gasping for air. The couple watched me, unblinking.

“She was trying to torment you,” I said, my voice barely audible. “The voices were blaming you. They wanted you to suffer. They mentioned a knife. Did something happen in your home? Something involving a knife?”

The old man’s eyes darkened, and he nodded slowly. His gaze fell to the floor. His wife remained silent.

“I killed her,” he confessed softly, almost as if admitting it to himself for the first time. “Candle Face was tormenting her, and I couldn’t stand to see my wife suffer anymore. The voices wouldn’t leave her alone. They kept saying terrible things. They were breaking her down, piece by piece.”

“She begged me to help her,” he continued, his voice trembling. “So I took my gun and shot her in our bedroom while she was standing next to the bathroom entrance. She didn’t even scream, just looked at me with those haunted eyes, like she knew it was coming. She fell to the floor, and I barely had time to realize what I’d done before there was just a small pool of blood beneath her. I moved her body to my truck, cleaned the floor as best as I could, but the bathroom door had a hole in it that I couldn’t fix. That type of door isn’t manufactured anymore. So I took it off its hinges and hid it in the barn under a pile of old hay. My plan was to burn her body, then bury the bones somewhere in South Texas and move back to Mexico. But before I could...”

The old woman’s hand tightened on his arm, as if bracing him for what came next.

“My son showed up,” the old man said. “It was an unannounced visit. Came out of nowhere. He didn’t know what I’d done to his stepmother. Didn’t even suspect it. He saw me outside, standing by my truck, and he must have seen something in my face, or maybe it was just bad timing. It was like he was being pulled there by something else, something I couldn’t see.”

His voice dropped lower as he continued. “He got real angry, like something snapped in him. He accused me of trying to sell off the ranch or leave him behind. I tried to calm him down, but he wouldn’t listen. One moment he was yelling, and the next, he pulled out a gun. He shot me, right there beside the truck. Cold, like it meant nothing. I remember falling, staring up at the sky, wondering if this was how it all ended. He didn’t even check if I was dead. Just grabbed my body and tossed it into the back of the truck in a hurry.”

His wife’s eyes were fixed on the floor.

“He was in such a rush, he didn’t notice her,” the old man continued, his gaze shifting to his wife. “My wife’s body was already in the truck bed, wrapped up in an old tarp. He didn’t even know she was there, didn’t know I’d killed her to end her suffering. He just threw me in with her remains and drove off, leaving the blood in the dirt outside the house. He drove all the way to South Texas and buried us deep in the desert, like we were nothing. Then he just left. I guess he carried out my plan for me.”

“He buried his own father and stepmother. All because of a misunderstanding, because of a moment of anger. And now he thinks I was going to abandon him, that I was going to run away.”

The old woman kept her hand on her husband’s arm. “He doesn’t know the truth,” she said, her voice strained. “And we can never tell him. You can never tell him. He did what he thought he had to do. We don’t want him to get in trouble. He’s already paid enough.”

The old man nodded slowly. “We don’t blame him, Ray. He didn’t know. And now we’re stuck here, trapped in this cycle, because Candle Face won’t let us go. She wants us to relive it all, the regret, the pain, over and over again.”

He looked up suddenly, a flicker of memory in his eyes. “Just before he shot me, I swear I heard Candle Face yell in my ear, ‘This is your reward,’ like she was smiling at what was about to happen.”

They looked at me, eyes hollow but pleading. “Just don’t let anyone come after him,” the old man said. “He’s been through enough already. Please.”

The couple’s forms dissolved, their outlines blurring and fading.

I knew I couldn’t ease their pain or undo Candle Face’s torment. Something else bothered me too. This didn’t feel like a random encounter. Candle Face had allowed them to come to me. She made sure I heard every detail. Why?

I kept replaying their words, the fear and anguish in every line. Candle Face wanted me to remember it, every detail. She was directing something I still couldn’t fully see, making sure I became part of whatever she was doing.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I stood up, my legs unsteady beneath me. The shadows lengthened at the corners of my vision.

She wanted me to feel the same helplessness she forces on her victims. It didn’t matter how many spirits came to me, how many stories I listened to. I couldn’t change what happened to them. That was the feeling she wanted to leave me with.

A sharp sizzling sensation hit me in the chest, and I knew without a doubt her attention had shifted toward me as well.

Every word they spoke felt like part of something she wanted me to piece together. The more I knew, the deeper I sank into whatever she was building around me. My hands shook as I clenched them into fists.

I had a sinking feeling that more stories like this one were on their way. More souls, more pain, and with each one Candle Face would be there, watching what it did to me.

This wasn’t over.

As I glanced around my living room, I felt her presence curling around me like smoke, a faint, mocking laughter bouncing off the walls. I knew Candle Face was smiling.

Because she knew she had me exactly where she wanted me.

Personal Note to My Readers

Updated October 8, 2024.

I’ve been thinking a lot after this last encounter. Every time a Lost Soul comes to me with their pain and tragedy, I wonder if I’m really helping them or just playing into Candle Face’s hands. The more I look at it, the more I realize she’s using these souls against me. She wants me to feel what they felt, and to know I can’t change what happened to them.

Just because Candle Face thinks she’s pulling the strings doesn’t mean I’ll stop trying to help. Simply acknowledging the pain these souls have gone through still pushes back. I’m giving them a voice, even if Candle Face wants me to think it’s pointless. That’s probably why she’s so determined to keep twisting things around.

She wants me to believe I’m just a helpless observer, that nothing will change no matter what I do. That’s her game. Make me doubt myself. Make me think I’m as trapped as these souls. Every time I listen to these stories and share them, I push back against her control, even if only a little. I know she’s using this confusion to weaken my determination, but I won’t give in.

Take the voices the old woman heard, the ones I picked up during our session. The words were Candle Face’s twisted way of breaking her spirit. The voices kept harping, feeding on her guilt, confusion, and fear. That’s the thing. None of it makes sense. It’s meant to drive her mad and leave her questioning everything.

And if the voices didn’t make sense to you either, that’s because they weren’t supposed to. That’s Candle Face’s tactic: keep it chaotic, keep it disturbing, and keep it personal. Let me break down the first rush of them line by line:

• “… why did you do it …” It’s like Candle Face was trying to make the woman doubt herself, planting the idea that she did something wrong even if she didn’t. That vague accusation stays, making it impossible for her to feel peace.
• “… why did you leave her …” Who’s “her”? Candle Face? Someone else? It’s designed to poke at her guilt, making her think she abandoned or betrayed someone. When you start doubting yourself, it’s easy to spiral into regret.
• “… she’s coming … you can’t run …” This is a scare tactic. It’s meant to raise her anxiety and fear, making her feel trapped.
• “… you’re too weak …” Candle Face attacks her sense of self here, breaking down whatever confidence she has left. She wants her to feel powerless against what’s happening to her.
• “… she remembers … it’s your fault …” Candle Face plants a false story, making the woman believe something she did or didn’t do is why all this is happening. It doesn’t have to be true, just convincing enough to create more doubt and guilt.
• “… her eyes are burning …” A reference to Candle Face’s appearance. It’s meant to force the woman to relive that face and the fear it brings.
• “… you’re the reason … why didn’t you stop her …” Candle Face makes her feel responsible for something she never controlled. She’s twisting the truth into something that feeds on regret.
• “… her face … you’re the reason she’s like this …” It’s a direct accusation, making it personal. Candle Face wants the woman to think she’s to blame for everything Candle Face has become. Whether it’s true or not doesn’t matter. It’s meant to hurt.

But the part that really threw me off was when the voices started mentioning a knife. I know the husband killed his wife with a gun, so why bring up a knife? It doesn’t add up. And I’ve been thinking about that for a while now.

I think Candle Face throws in false details like that to confuse and disorient her victims even more. Maybe she wants them to think they’re forgetting something, or worse, remembering something that never happened. That’s another way to make them question their sanity and feel like they’re losing touch with reality. In a way, that may be the worst part. You start to think, “What if I’ve forgotten something terrible?” or “What if I’m not remembering things correctly?” That knife didn’t exist, but in the old woman’s mind, it’s now part of her story, another burden she has to carry.

One more part of their account doesn’t sit right. The old man said his son didn’t know his stepmother’s remains were already in the truck when he threw his father’s body in. That may explain the first mistake. It doesn’t fully explain the burial in South Texas. If the son removed his father from the truck himself, he should have had a chance to see someone else already there. One possible explanation is that the old man was already dead by that point and knew only that he had been thrown into the truck, not what his son saw afterward. Another is that Candle Face had already begun doing what she does so often in these cases: clouding memory, distorting sequence, and leaving her victims with gaps they can’t close. For now, I’m treating that part of the testimony as unsolved.

That’s how Candle Face works: turning truth into lies, mixing up memories, making you feel responsible for things you never did. She wants her victims torn apart by doubt, questioning their own reality. The real damage is what she does to the mind. That’s how she breaks them.

But here’s where I stand: every encounter with the Lost Souls, every technique I strengthen, gives me a clearer picture of Candle Face’s tactics. I’m learning how to sort through the chaos.

I know she wants me to feel trapped, just like that couple. She wants me to believe I’m just another pawn. But I’ll keep listening to these Lost Souls, keep telling their stories, and keep pushing back.

It’s not over. I’ll keep fighting for these souls, no matter how hard she makes me doubt myself.

I’m not going anywhere.

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.