May 12, 2024
As I settled into the couch, the weight of the day's worries began to lift slightly. Something compelled me to open my eyes, and when I did, I saw a flickering of shadows against the far wall, as if the dim light had suddenly become shy. That's when I saw him—my next lost soul. He materialized near the window, his form vague and shimmering. He stood there, silently watching, as if gauging my reaction. It was clear he had something to reveal, some message or unfinished business in my living room. I sat up, and he walked over to me and sat down next to me. My eyes glaring into his was his cue to start.
I first heard the stories of Candle Face on the corner of Congress Avenue and Sixth Street in Austin, TX. A group of fellow homeless people, their eyes haunted, were gathered around a light post and bench, speaking about a ghostly girl who haunted those who dared to scoff at her existence. I, a staunch skeptic, found the notion laughable and investigated further.
A woman led the group with piercing blue eyes. She spoke of Candle Face with a mix of fear and reverence, claiming that the ghost was once a young girl who met a tragic end, her face disfigured in a terrible fire. Now, she roamed the streets of Austin, seeking out those who disbelieved her story, drawing them into her world of shadows and torment.
Intrigued and skeptical, I challenged their belief, mocking the idea of a ghost punishing non-believers. The woman’s gaze hardened and warned me, “Mock her, and you invite her wrath. She’ll show you the truth, but it’ll cost you more than you can imagine.”
That night, as I lay under Interstate Highway 35, the air in my tent grew hot, and a sense of unease washed over me. I heard a faint voice, a childlike voice, calling my name. I sat up, heart racing, and that’s when I saw her – Candle Face. Her appearance was horrifying, her face charred and twisted, her eyes hollow. She stared at me, and at that moment, I felt a terror unlike anything I had ever known. In her hand, she menacingly played with a needle, rolling it between her charred fingers as if pondering its use.
She spoke in an innocent and menacing voice, “Come with me.” The world around me twisted, and I found myself in a nightmarish landscape, the streets of Austin transformed into a hellscape of shadows and fire.
As we walked through the twisted hellscape of Austin's transformed streets, Candle Face’s innocent and foreboding voice filled the air. She spoke of her longing not just for believers but for a connection that went beyond mere acknowledgment. "I seek those who will embrace my story, spread it far and wide, and in doing so, weave me into the fabric of their lives," she explained in her tone, a mix of desperation and command.
She revealed a duality within her existence: to the devoted, she appeared as a guardian spirit, offering solace and alleviating the suffering of those engulfed by emotional and psychological torment. This caring aspect seemed a cry for redemption, a plea to be seen as more than a horror figure. "To those who believe, I am a beacon of hope in the darkness, a guiding light away from despair," she said, her voice softening.
Yet, her demeanor hardened as she spoke of the others—the skeptics. "But to those who deny me, who cast aside my presence as a mere joke, I am the retribution they fear," she declared coldly. Her need to be acknowledged, feared, and revered intertwined tightly with her actions. She craved to be a part of the world and shape it, manipulating perceptions and realities to suit her desires.
Candle Face's existence, she confessed, drew power from the community's collective consciousness, from their fears, beliefs, and the very essence of their spiritual engagements. "I am born of both reverence and disdain and each disbelief, each skeptic's scorn, only fuels my essence," she explained, her eyes glinting with a complex mix of malice and yearning.
Her strategy in selecting me as her conduit, her messenger to the living, was clear. She fluctuated between menacing threats and an almost plaintive appeal for my help, underscoring her manipulative yet deeply strategic nature. "In sharing my story, you offer me the tribute of memory and belief. In return, I offer a warning—and perhaps, for some, salvation," she concluded, her voice echoing around us, as haunting as the shadowy flames that danced along the ruined streets.
The experience was overwhelming, and I begged her to let me go, promising to believe, to tell her story. With a frightening laugh, she released me, and I awoke in my tent, drenched in sweat, the echoes of her laughter still ringing in my ears.
The next day, I was a changed person. I couldn’t shake the images of what I had seen or the haunting presence of Candle Face, but something was profoundly different. All my usual pains, the constant headaches, the aches from years of alcohol and drug abuse, and even the mental fog and anguish that had shadowed my life had vanished. I felt rejuvenated, as if years of physical and mental torment had been lifted off my shoulders, leaving me feeling like a million dollars. I was drawn to the group I had once mocked, seeking answers and understanding.
They welcomed me, seeing the change in my eyes. I learned that they, too, had experienced encounters with Candle Face, each with their own disturbing account. They had chosen to believe, to spread her story.
Together, we roamed the streets at night, sharing the stories of Candle Face with anyone who would listen. We became her disciples, her messengers, spreading the word of her existence. It was our hope that by doing so, we could spare others from her wrath.
But even as I told her story, a part of me wrestled with the reality of it all. Was Candle Face real, or was she a manifestation of our collective fears, a symbol of the dark truths we refuse to face? Was she truly a ghost or something far more evil?
These questions haunted me even as I continued to share her story. But my doubt would soon be my undoing.
In my dream, Candle Face appeared once more that night, her face more grotesque than ever. “You lost faith,” she hissed, her voice dripping with malice. Before I could react, her hands were upon me, her fingers clamping down on my mouth and nose, cutting off my breath. The skin of her hands felt like the rough bark of a burnt tree.
Her grip tightened, her charred fingers pressing relentlessly, merging the smell of scorched flesh with the stifling panic of suffocation. I tried to scream, but the sound was muffled against her palm, a suffocating silence that seemed to swallow my very soul. Her hollow eyes, voids darker than the night itself, bore into mine with a cruel satisfaction. Around us, the shadows seemed to pulse with life, chanting in a language not meant for human ears.
As the air in my lungs dwindled, the edges of my vision frayed into darkness. Each heartbeat thundered in my ears, slower and more labored than the last as if my life force was being drained into the abyss of her gaze. The terror was so profound, so paralyzing, that it seemed to freeze the very marrow in my bones.
As my vision darkened and my struggles weakened, I realized the terrible truth. Candle Face wasn’t a figment of imagination or a shared delusion. She was a relentless entity, punishing those who dared to doubt her existence.
My last thoughts were filled with regret and terror, understanding too late the power of belief and the fatal consequences of skepticism.
As my consciousness slipped away, only the cold touch of a needle remained in my arm—a relic of a life I had long forsaken, now mysteriously returned as if guided by an invisible, evil force.
The lost soul stood up and walked towards the portal in the far corner of the living room. His movements were slow, almost hesitant. As he neared the shadowy portal, his own shadow stretched out on the wall behind him. The needle still stuck out from his left arm, a grim reminder of his past. He paused at the portal's edge, looking back at me one last time with a mix of sadness and resignation. Then he turned, stepped through the portal, and disappeared. The room fell quiet, the portal vanished, and all that was left was the dim light from the dining room.
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