October 6, 2024
The late-night Dallas Cowboys and Pittsburgh Steelers game had me all wound up, so I couldn’t go to sleep. I laid 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 still nothing. Not even a hint of drowsiness. So, I decided to sit up and do some breathing exercises to clear my mind. I figured since I couldn’t sleep, 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 summoned.
I had learned some basic mediumship techniques online, piecing together a method that seemed promising. After making a few adjustments to suit my style, I prepared myself for the session. First, I visualized a white light enveloping 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 pulling 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, a change occurred. The shadows in the living room began to darken, thickening like smoke, and the lights in the kitchen started flickering. The air grew heavy, and then, almost as if crossing an invisible threshold, 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 made a beckoning motion, 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 space 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 would not want me to take action, but I figured I’d figure it out while 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, likely mostly made up, in an attempt to ‘one-up’ each other. But in time, we didn’t know what was real and what was made up. Ultimately, 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 with a nasty tone, while the lady nudged him. “Be nice,” she said.
“We’re here to tell you about the circumstances of our deaths.”
“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, notably 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” to these voices in her head at that time. I didn’t think it would work, but I closed my eyes and focused on the memory of her hearing those voices. I imagined my consciousness slipping back in time, 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, like the low hum of static interference. Slowly, fragmented words began to filter through—a rambling chorus of overlapping screams, echoing through my mind.
“... 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 …”
The voices melded into a horrifying symphony, each word echoing through my mind. I strained to make sense of them, feeling the intensity build, like a coiled snake ready to strike. It was as if dozens of voices were yelling directly into my brain, each one struggling to be heard over the other.
“You can’t hide … she’s watching … she’ll make you see … 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 steady. “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, a look of sorrow etched into her face.
“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 things, 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 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 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, trembling 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 didn’t mean a thing. 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 expression darkened, her eyes 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 bones were 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. 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.”
His voice trembled. “He buried his own father and stepmother without even knowing it. 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’s hand tightened around 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.”
A son, unwittingly burying his parents in a fit of rage, believing he was left behind. A husband who took his wife’s life to spare her agony, only to find himself punished for it in death.
They looked at me, eyes hollow but pleading. “Just don’t let anyone come after him,” the old man pleaded. “He’s been through enough already. Please.”
The shadows began to close in as the couple’s forms dissolved, their outlines blurring and fading. I stared at the empty space where they had stood, feeling the chill of their presence seep into my soul.
I knew there was no way to ease their pain or undo Candle Face’s torment. But something else was gnawing at me, a deeper, darker suspicion as the seconds ticked by. This wasn’t just a random encounter. Candle Face had allowed them to come to me. She had made sure I heard every detail of their story. But why?
I replayed their words, the fear and anguish etched into every syllable. Candle Face didn’t just want me to bear witness—she wanted me to remember. She was orchestrating this, pulling strings I couldn’t even see, ensuring that I became a part of whatever twisted game she was playing.
My heart hammered against my ribs as I stood up, my legs trembling beneath me. The room felt darker now, the shadows lengthening and stretching, twisting at the corners of my vision. Candle Face wasn’t just a vengeful spirit, tormenting these lost souls. She was something else entirely—something that thrived on control and manipulation. She was toying with me, too.
She wanted me to feel it too. The powerlessness. The helplessness. The way she forces her victims to watch, unable to stop her relentless cruelty. It didn’t matter how many spirits came to me, how many stories I listened to—there was no changing their fate. I was powerless. And that’s exactly how she wanted me to feel.
The shadows seemed to breathe, shifting and swirling as if she were still there, watching, waiting. A sharp sizzling sensation hit me in the chest, and I knew without a doubt: Candle Face had made her intentions clear. This wasn’t just about the souls she tortured—this was about me.
Every word they spoke was a piece of the puzzle she wanted me to assemble. Every glimpse into their suffering was another brick in the wall she was building around me. The more I knew, the deeper I’d be in her web. Whatever game she was playing, she had just made me a central player.
My hands shook as I clenched them into fists. I was her captive audience.
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 waiting in the shadows, watching me unravel piece by piece, savoring every moment.
This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
And as I glanced around my living room, I felt her presence curling around me like smoke, a faint, mocking laughter echoing in the silence. I knew Candle Face was smiling, her grin wide and spiteful.
Because she knew she had me exactly where she wanted me.
Personal Note to My Readers (Updated on Oct 8, 2024)
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking after this last encounter. Every time a lost soul reaches out to me, sharing their pain and tragedy, I’m left wondering if I’m really helping them or just playing into Candle Face’s hands. The more I look at it, the more I see her using these souls to mess with me—to make me feel the weight of their suffering, the frustration of not being able to do anything to change their fate, and that crushing sense of powerlessness.
But you know what? Just because Candle Face thinks she’s pulling the strings doesn’t mean I’m going to stop trying to help. I’ve learned that simply acknowledging the pain these souls have gone through is an act of defiance. I’m giving them a voice, even if Candle Face wants me to think it’s pointless. And that’s probably why she’s so determined to keep twisting things around.
She wants me to believe that I’m just a helpless observer, that no matter what I do, it won’t matter. That’s her game. Make me doubt myself, make me think I’m as trapped as these souls. But I’m not falling for it. Every time I listen to these stories and share them, I’m pushing back against her control, even if it’s just a little. I know she’s using this confusion and these stories to weaken my resolve, but I’m not giving in.
Take, for example, the voices the old woman heard during our encounter. They weren’t just random words—they were Candle Face’s twisted way of breaking her spirit. The voices kept harping on things that made no sense, feeding on her guilt, confusion, and fear. That’s the thing—none of it is meant to make 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 it’s not supposed to. That’s Candle Face’s tactic: keep it chaotic, keep it disturbing, and keep it personal. Let me break it down for you 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 lingers, 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 the woman’s guilt, make 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 one’s a classic scare tactic. It’s the equivalent of someone hiding around a corner and whispering “I’m coming to get you.” It’s meant to heighten her anxiety and fear, making her feel trapped and powerless.
“... you’re too weak …” Candle Face is straight-up attacking her self-worth here, breaking down any confidence she had left. She wants her to feel like she’s completely powerless against whatever’s happening to her.
“... she remembers … it’s your fault …” This is Candle Face planting a false narrative, making the woman believe that something she did or didn’t do is the reason why all this is happening. It doesn’t have to be true—just convincing enough to sow more doubt and guilt.
“... her eyes are burning …” A reference to Candle Face’s appearance. It’s designed to remind the woman of that terrifying face, forcing her to relive the fear and trauma over and over again.
“... you’re the reason … why didn’t you stop her …” Candle Face is making her feel responsible for something she never had any control over. She’s twisting the truth, turning it into a lie that feeds on the woman’s sense of 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 chewing on that for a while now.
I think Candle Face throws in false details like that to further confuse and disorient her victims. Maybe she wants them to think they’re forgetting something, or worse, remembering something that never happened. It’s a way to make them question their own sanity, to make them feel like they’re losing touch with reality. And in a way, it’s even more terrifying because 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.
See, that’s how Candle Face works—by turning truth into lies, mixing up memories, and making you feel responsible for things you never did. It’s not about the weapon she mentions; it’s about the damage she inflicts on the mind and soul.
Candle Face doesn’t want her victims to have clarity or peace. She wants them confused, torn apart by doubt, and constantly questioning their own reality. The voices are there to blur the line between truth and fiction, making the woman feel guilty for things that never even happened. It’s psychological warfare at its finest.
But here’s where I stand: I see through her games now. The more I encounter these lost souls, and the more I perfect my mediumship and remote viewing abilities, the more I understand Candle Face’s tactics. She might be trying to break me down, but I’m learning to piece things together, to find the logic in her chaos.
I know she wants me to feel trapped, just like she did with that couple. She wants me to believe I’m just a helpless pawn in her sick game. But I’m not backing down. I’m going to keep listening to these lost souls, keep sharing their stories, and keep pushing back against whatever twisted game she’s playing.
It’s not over—not by a long shot. Candle Face wants me to feel stuck, but I refuse to be just another pawn on her board. I’ll keep fighting for these souls, no matter how hard she makes me doubt myself.
She might think she’s winning, but I’ve got news for her: I’m not going anywhere.
Key To Understanding
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