March 8, 2024
The downpour of pollen ruined my plans for an evening stroll outdoors, leading me to opt for a session on my treadmill to clock in some miles before ending the day. This treadmill sits in the sunroom, diagonally across from a corner through which two apparitions, known as Victim # 7 and Victim # 12, have made their presence felt in my home. As I was decelerating on the treadmill during my cooldown, the soft wails emanating from that corner reached my ears. Turning my gaze toward the noise source, I discerned two vague silhouettes, one male and the other female. Halting the treadmill prompted the female to speak, “Please, keep going. I miss the days when I could run; I miss it so much.” I offered a gentle smile in her direction before moving to sit on the sofa, silently inviting them to join me. However, they remained on their feet, holding hands. It was then that she began to share her story:
As a spirit, my essence is forever marked by the memories of my final day, especially that winter jog, when each step unknowingly drew me closer to my demise. The Walkman, strapped securely to my arm, filled my ears with a playlist of my favorite songs, creating an auditory bubble separating me from the cold world around me.
This bubble of musical solitude burst when a young man in a car pulled up beside me, asking for directions. The sound of my own breath and the music had been so consuming that I initially missed his words, prompting me to lift the headphones from my ears. What began as an innocent encounter quickly spiraled into darkness after I declined his offer for a ride. His reaction was swift and violent, catching me off guard as he forcibly restrained me and locked me in the trunk of his car. The sudden absence of music, with my Walkman abandoned on the ground, made the reality of my situation all the starker.
The young man momentarily left the scene, only to return with a predatory slowness, his gaze fixed on the ground in search of the Walkman. When he found it, he casually picked it up, inadvertently leaving the battery case and batteries behind on the street.
I didn’t know then that this man was merely a tool in a larger, darker scheme led by Candle Face, a name that instills fear in the afterlife. He was supposed to abduct me and take me to a secluded spot in the woods, a command from Candle Face herself. However, driven either by a desire to control the situation or a dark whim, he killed me instead, failing his directive. This disobedience cost him dearly; Candle Face took his life in retribution, condemning him to share this haunted existence with me. We are bound together now, our hands fused in an unbreakable bond. I’m torn between the torment of Candle Face’s world and the agony of existence with the man who stole my very essence. Ray, seek out my Walkman’s battery case and batteries along the lonely road where my abduction occurred. Trace the path of my final jog in the Georgetown area. There, amidst the remnants of my past, lies the key to uncovering the truth of my fate. Find my body, and I can be free of this monster that’s attached to me.
She smirked, expressing gratitude for my attention, then retreated into the shadows. Her killer followed behind her hand and hand.
Personal Note to My Readers
After they vanished from the sunroom, leaving behind only the lingering essence of her story, a thought struck me. The young man, the unwitting architect of his own demise, now shares her ghostly prison, a twist of fate as ironic as it is just. As the silence of the room wraps around me, I find myself smirking, too, at the notion of his astonishment and despair upon realizing his eternal sentence mirrors that of his victims. This dark amusement at his predicament feels almost out of place, yet undeniably fitting.
The recounting of their tangled fates, told from the corner of my sunroom, leaves a lasting impression. It’s a grim reminder of the tightrope walk between actions and consequences, a balance easily tipped by choices made in moments of arrogance or cruelty. As I reflect on the story that unfolded in the absence of her ghostly presence, the irony of his situation evokes a shadow of laughter in me—a sound that feels foreign and appropriate in the empty sunroom. This laughter is not one of joy but of recognition of the poetic justice that binds him to the fate he forced upon her. However, my heart aches for her.
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I think I may know know who the female is. She might be Rachel Cooke. She went missing in Georgetown in January 2010 while she was on a jog near her parent's house. She was visiting her parents for Christmas break because she was a college student in California. If I remember correctly, people who lived near her parent's house reported seeing a car drive slowly around the area. This could be the guy who took her and he was looing for the Walkman. Reports say she had a pink Walkman and liked to run with it. But this all happened so long ago, I might be wrong around the details.