December 16, 2024
I’ve known for a while that this day would come, though I can’t say I’ve ever felt truly ready for it. The crystal ball that I’ve kept so close—on my bookshelf, desk, dining room table, and wherever I dared to display it—has finally earned itself a trip back into its box. I don’t need it anyway. The lost souls can use the portal in my living room. But it has allowed me to see things that I haven’t before. It has also brought Candle Face and her Master Shadow into my life, and the dread they’ve introduced is something I can no longer tolerate.
The Master Shadow has already warned me that he’ll return, and I know he doesn’t need the crystal ball to do so. Yet the crystal ball has always felt like a beacon or a focal point. If I remove it from my daily space, maybe I can dampen his influence, even if only a fraction. Maybe I can slow his approach, give myself a moment’s peace, or at least the illusion of it. “Out of sight, out of mind,” as people say.
I decided this afternoon to stow it away. As I sat at my desk, the ball resting on its wooden stool, the silence in my home was deafening. I lifted the ball and turned it slowly between my hands. A faint warmth radiated from it, unusual for a piece of glass that should be at room temperature. My heart fluttered. Perhaps this was its final parting shot, some lingering energy from the Master Shadow who had passed through it.
I took the crystal ball and lowered it toward its original box. That’s when I noticed something strange. The ball reflected more than my anxious face. Inside, I saw shadowy figures. At first, they were just silhouettes. Human-shaped but featureless, perched on wooden beams and surrounded by what looked like pink insulation. My mind instantly leaped to the attic. Pink insulation, wooden beams—that’s the space above my ceiling—right above my head.
I paused, holding the ball inches above the box. I tilted it slightly, and the angle changed the perspective of the shadows inside. More silhouettes came into view. There had to be around thirty of them, scattered along attic beams, huddled close, as if hiding from something. My pulse raced. I’d seen these shadow figures before and thought I recognized the area.
Yet I had no idea who they were or what they wanted. I knew only that my attic had become a refuge for—something. Before I lowered the ball into the box, I took a deep breath and lifted it close to my face, studying these silhouettes, hoping to discern a clue. They moved slowly, shifting their weight on the beams, leaning into the insulation. They seemed nervous and fearful. But fearful of what? Candle Face? The Master Shadow? Me?
I finally closed the box and set it aside. I couldn’t just shove the crystal ball in the garage now, not after this revelation. I had to confirm. My curiosity, dread, and sense of responsibility compelled me upstairs. I climbed into the attic, turning on the overhead light. I surveyed the dim space: dusty boxes and a huge HVAC system. Everything looked normal. No silhouettes, no movement. I waited at least ten minutes, listening to the hum of the HVAC system and the faint creaks of settling wood. If anyone or anything was up there, they stayed out of sight.
Eventually, I turned off the light and made my way back toward the crawl hole that leads into the guest room. The glow from the room guided my path, a pale illumination in the cramped attic. As I reached the opening and prepared to leave, I caught a glimpse—two dark shapes darting behind the HVAC system. My heart slammed in my chest. So they were real, at least as real as any apparition could be.
Against my better judgment, I remained in the attic and closed the doors behind me, blocking the guest room’s light. After a minute, my eyes adjusted. I saw them again: one silhouette peeking around the HVAC unit, curious and cautious. I spoke quietly, telling it I wouldn’t harm it. My voice sounded strange in the dark, hoping my wife wouldn’t hear me. The silhouette vanished, then reappeared, as if weighing my intentions. I repeated my offer of peace.
Then, a remarkable thing happened. More silhouettes rose into view—heads popping up behind corners and beams, shoulders emerging from shadows. I counted roughly thirty of them, arranged in a loose circle around me. They seemed less frightened of me now, although still guarded. In the near-total darkness, they communicated not with spoken words, but through impressions and something akin to telepathy. It was as if their leader stepped forward—a shadow taller than the others—and somehow projected its thoughts, its story, into my mind.
That’s when I learned the truth. I didn’t discover their identity through intuition or guesswork; the leader told me directly. These weren’t random apparitions. They were lost souls who had escaped Candle Face’s hell. That very phrase—“Candle Face’s hell”—filtered into my consciousness like a half-forgotten memory. After all, I’ve seen this hell with my own two eyes twice. The leader’s presence in my mind formed images and emotions: the scorching horrors of that hell, the endless torment, the desperate flight through hidden portals. My stomach churned with shock and empathy. They didn’t just wander into my attic. They came here to hide, to seek refuge from unimaginable cruelty.
The leader showed me how they’d used a second portal—one hidden in my guest room—while other lost souls, the ones who appear through my living room portal, risked themselves to distract Candle Face and her Master Shadow. Those testimonies I’ve listened to, those flickering kitchen lights I’ve documented, were all part of a coordinated effort. The souls who visited me openly had bought time for these refugees to escape into my attic.
So that’s what all the flickering kitchen lights had been about. Each arrival of a lost soul, each strange surge of energy, corresponded not only to testimonies in my living room but also to escapes through the guest room. The leader impressed upon me that their collective energy—the energy signatures of the escaped lost souls clustered together—was growing too strong to remain undetected for long. The Master Shadow would sense it—and he did, but he didn’t look in the attic. He would return, as he promised. And if he found them here, the punishment would be far worse than anything they had endured before.
The leader’s message was clear: they needed my help. They had revealed themselves not out of carelessness, but desperation. They believed I could somehow protect them, shield them from detection, or help them remain hidden until they could find a safer haven. I wanted to protest that I was just an ordinary person and knew nothing about protecting spirits or lost souls. But how could I turn them away after learning their story?
Surrounded by their silhouettes, I felt both empowered and terrified. I told them—quietly, my voice steady despite my inner turmoil—that I would do my best. I didn’t know how, but I would try. The leader bowed its head slightly, a gesture of gratitude. The others looked on silently. I could sense their fear, yet I could also sense a glimmer of hope now that they had asked for my help.
I understood their plight more deeply now. They had fled a place of unspeakable torment, ruled by Candle Face. The lost souls who gave their testimonies in my living room had sacrificed their safety to buy these refugees time. Now, all of those efforts rested on my shoulders. If I fail to conceal or protect these refugees, the entire operation will collapse, and these souls will be dragged back to endless suffering.
I considered what I could do. Wards, protective symbols, maybe something to mask their collective energy. The crystal ball’s presence had perhaps made it easier for Candle Face’s evil shadows to track my movements here, so putting it away might help. Even though the Master Shadow or Cande Face doesn’t need the ball to return, any step that weakens their foothold could be beneficial. I thought about folklore and old stories—salt lines, protective charms, prayers, incantations. A friend of mine, Aaron, from Gen X Paranormal Investigations from Deer Park, Texas, conducts harvesting, which involves capturing and trapping spirits in boxes. He says he has many in his garage. I must ask for his guidance. I must try something.
Before I left the attic, I asked the leader silently if there were any instructions they could give me. The response came not in words, but in a rush of impressions: “Hurry, be discreet, don’t call unnecessary attention. The Master Shadow thrives on fear and detection.” If I can keep these souls calm and their energy low, maybe he won’t pinpoint their location. Perhaps I could encourage them to spread through my entire attic, which is very large, or at least remain very still. But no—movement might only stir up more energy. They seemed to sense my struggle for a plan and gave me one last plea: “Whatever you do, do it quickly.”
I nodded and said that I would return soon. Carefully, I edged backward, making my way to the attic doors. I opened them and climbed out into the guest bedroom. I retrieved the box from my desk and carried it to the garage. I placed it high on a shelf. If the crystal ball served as a beacon, maybe this would dim its influence. Out of sight, out of mind. With that done, I went to my computer room to write this journal entry. I need to record these events, to keep my thoughts organized. If I don’t write it down now, I might convince myself it was just a feverish dream. But no, it happened. I saw them, and they communicated with me. They trust me now. They depend on me.
It’s strange how everything aligns: the flickering lights in my kitchen that used to puzzle me now make perfect sense. Every surge of energy, every trembling bulb, has coincided with new arrivals fleeing Candle Face’s hell. The lost souls using the living room portal weren’t just random visitors. They were allies of these attic refugees, knowingly putting themselves at risk to keep the Master Shadow occupied. I just thought of something: Two lost souls yelled out, “Hide.” They weren’t warning me. They were shouting at the refugees. My chest tightened as the pieces clicked into place—‘hide’ wasn’t meant for me at all. It was for them. Brilliant.
Now, it falls to me to repay their trust. I must find a way. I’ve interacted with the paranormal long enough to know that mere ignorance won’t save me, the lost souls, or the refugees. I’ve read about protective herbs, about sigils drawn in chalk or etched into wood. I might try burning sage or placing salt lines along the attic’s perimeter. Maybe I can arrange crystals—ordinary quartz or obsidian—to absorb or deflect their spiritual signatures. I’m grasping at straws without proper training, but I must do something.
I can’t let go of the leader of the refugees' fears: the Master Shadow can sense their combined presence. Time is short. He’ll return, and when he does, he’ll bring their doom unless I can hide them. I consider reaching out to the souls who’ve given me testimonies in the living room. If I can summon one or two of them, I might learn more tricks of the trade. But summoning them risks more energy which might also attract attention. It’s a tightrope act with no net. Actually, I can’t mention the refugees to the lost souls at all, because I know the shadows are listening when the lost souls are here. A few times, a lost soul said something to me that they weren't supposed to; long arms came out of the portal and pulled the lost soul back into the portal. So, I must not mention the refugees to them.
I realize the severity of my promise. I told them I’d do my best. That means I can’t sit idly by. After finishing this journal entry, I’ll try something simple: maybe I’ll place a ring of salt around the attic entrance. If folklore holds any truth, salt can create barriers or purify spaces. Even if it’s just psychological comfort, it might calm my nerves as I think of a better plan. The key is to act fast and discreetly. I must not let fear paralyze me. Thinking about it, if the Master Shadow does come back and sees the salt, that would be a dead giveaway. Maybe I don’t give any clues; perhaps I just need to figure out how to hide them. I don’t have time for half-measures; they need me to act—now!
Personal Note to My Readers
Please understand that the events leading up to tonight weren’t random. The 14 months of lost souls’ visits, the cryptic testimonies, the flickering lights, Candle Face’s appearance, and the Master Shadow’s threat—all of it was building to this crisis. I have around thirty escaped souls huddled in my attic, refugees from a hellish world, counting on me for their very existence. Failure means unimaginable torment for them, and likely for me too, and the knowledge that I stood by and let it happen would haunt me forever.
At first, I called them escapees. It seemed like the most fitting term for spirits who had fled Candle Face’s hell. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that even the word refugees fell short. These souls weren’t just seeking refuge; they were evading something that actively hunted them. The fear they radiated wasn’t passive—it was urgent, immediate. They weren’t just running from their past; they were running for their lives. That’s when it hit me: they were Fugitives.
The word carried weight. It captured the full gravity of their situation. These souls were pursued, not merely lost or displaced. They were hiding, evading, surviving. The danger they faced wasn’t theoretical; it was relentless. And now, by seeking my help, they had tied their fate to mine.
I pray I find a solution in time. Perhaps this journal, this very act of writing, will bring some clarity. Or perhaps by the time I look back on these words, all will be lost. I must not let that happen. I must be clever, resourceful, and above all, compassionate. The Fugitives trusted me enough to tell me who they are and why they came. That trust is a gift and a burden. I must honor it.
I’ll start tonight. I’ll contact my friend Aaron, and I’ll conduct more thorough research and maybe find some obscure rituals online. I must move quickly and quietly, just as they asked.
The Master Shadow will come. He said he would. But when he does, I want him to find nothing amiss, no glaring beacon of escaped souls. I want him to pass us by, baffled and frustrated. If I can achieve that, I might buy these souls the time they need to remain free. And if I can do that, maybe, just maybe, I can sleep a little easier, knowing I did my part in this strange, otherworldly struggle.
Protecting the fugitives is my new mission.
Key To Understanding
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