February 25, 2024
In the dead of night, when the world lies silent, I find no peace. I’m besieged by spirits—the victims of Candle Face. They come to me at night, sharing stories of horror and despair, imploring me to help them find rest. Once scrambled and incoherent, their stories are now evident in my mind. Tonight, however, my reality would shift from that of a reluctant medium to a captive audience to Candle Face herself.
A hotness enveloped me as I drifted asleep, drawing me into darkness. For the first time in four decades, standing before me was Candle Face, not the wax figure my childhood imagination had conjured but a vision of horror that exceeded my darkest nightmares. Her name, a naive label from my youth, belied the terrifying reality of her appearance. Her face was a grotesque canvas of charred flesh, twisted and distorted like melted wax, with hollow pits for eyes that radiated a wicked glow, piercing the very fabric of my soul. Her voice, a hoarse roar that grated like sandpaper, carried the rasp of a lifelong chain smoker, each word enveloped in the heat of her dragon-like breath. The air around her crackled, her skin sizzling and popping like cooking oil over an open flame, emitting heat so intense it seemed the very air might ignite. This was no mere figment of a child’s imagination but a tangible embodiment of dread, her presence warping the air and painting a vivid picture of despair. As she guided me through the shadowed realms of her dominion, her ghastly, charred appearance, marked by blackened scars, served as a reminder of the horrors that awaited in her world, where the fear that clenched at my heart was as real as the tormented cries of the souls she ensnared.
“Ray,” Candle Face began, her voice echoing around us with that terrifying rasp, “you have been chosen. Chosen to bear witness and to act. Behold the fate of those who languish here, trapped between worlds.” As we walked, the air was filled with thousands of souls, their cries of anguish melding into a symphony of despair. I saw faces twisted in eternal torment, their bodies bound by invisible chains that seemed to sear their very essence. The air tasted of ash and sorrow, a bitter reminder of the pain that permeated this place. The heat from her skin scorched the air around us, a constant assault that left me longing for the cold embrace of the night I had left behind.
“Why me?” I managed to ask, my voice barely a murmur against the backdrop of suffering. “You put them here; you can end their torment, yet you task me with this impossible burden.”
“Why me, you ask.” Why do all of you ask that?” Candle Face retorted her laughter, a sound of cracking embers. “But you, Ray, you’re different. You’ve faced me before and emerged victorious a rarity. Your resilience, your ability to capture the essence of horror in your words... It impressed me.” Her gaze, if it could be called that, bore into me with an intensity that felt like it could unravel my soul. “Your portrayal of me in The Empty Lot Next Door was...flattering except for the silly name you gave me. You have a gift, Ray, a power with words that rivals my own with souls. It is why you were chosen. Because of our history, your fight, and your victory. You beat me once, which makes you uniquely qualified to undertake this task. You understand the stakes, the pain, the fear. Who better to help them than someone who can face me and win?”
Though filled with a twisted admiration, her words did little to quell the dread that had taken root in my heart. The realization that my past encounters with her and my ability to survive and even defy her led to this moment was both a curse and a peculiar source of pride. I had been chosen not just as a witness but as a warrior in a battle I had never sought to fight. The path ahead was filled with danger, but it was clear that my journey with Candle Face was far from over. It was a frightening thought, yet in the deepest recesses of my mind, a spark of defiance began to glow. Perhaps there was a way to use my words, my only weapon, to change the fate of those lost souls and, in doing so, alter my own.
Candle Face’s laughter was a sound of pure malice, a reminder of the darkness within her. “Ray, my dear, you misunderstand the depth of this game. Yes, you beat me once, a feat few can claim, but don’t indulge in the folly that history might repeat itself. Their torment, their ceaseless despair, is the wellspring of my power. And you, unwittingly, have become a most precious pawn in this grand chessboard—a bridge between the living and the dead. Your brave efforts, however noble they may seem, only serve to stir the pot, heightening the agony of their existence. It’s a delicious irony. Your struggle to save them only deepens their despair. And should you abandon this quest, consider the despair you would cast upon yourself and them: a double-edged sword, Ray, and one you cannot wield to victory again. You see, the game has changed, and with it, the rules. Beating me once was your miracle; believing you can do so again is your folly. The board is set, and the pieces are moving. You are in my world now, playing by my rules. And here, I am unbeatable.”
Her words were a web of cunning and deceit, designed to trap and dishearten. Yet, within her taunt lay a truth I could not ignore: I had indeed beaten her once. It was a victory that had cost me dearly, a battle of wits and will that I had barely survived. But here she was, acknowledging my triumph while casting doubt on my ability to repeat it. It was a clever tactic, one meant to undermine my confidence and resolve. However, the mere acknowledgment of my past success ignited a rebellion. If I had bested her once, underestimating me could be her undoing. Her words were meant to trap me in despair, but instead, they fueled my determination. The path ahead was difficult, but surrender wasn’t an option.
Her words were a knife to my heart. The realization of my role in this twisted game was overwhelming. Candle Face wasn’t merely a tormentor of souls; she was a manipulator of fate, using my desire to help deepen the suffering of those she had claimed.
As our tour of torment continued, Candle Face’s threat became terrifyingly clear. “Help them, Ray, or join them. And know this: your punishment will be a masterpiece of agony, so exquisite that it will make these torments seem like minor discomfort.”
Awakening from this nightmare, I was drenched in sweat, my heart racing as if I had run a marathon. The vividness of the dream, the intensity of the emotions, and the wickedness of Candle Face’s presence lingered, a tangible weight upon my soul. I stumbled to my computer, intending to document this latest horror, but as my fingers hovered over the keys, a profound sense of despair washed over me.
What had I become? A vessel for the dead, tormented by spirits and now threatened by the very essence of evil itself. My mission to aid “The Lost Souls” had become my curse, binding me to a path that seemed to lead only to madness and sorrow. Abandoning my quest brought me no relief, only a more profound despair. Candle Face’s threats echoed in my mind, a constant reminder of the stakes at play.
In the depths of my misery, I questioned everything—my sanity, my purpose, even the very essence of my being. The room around me felt oppressive, and the shadows lurking in the corners seemed to mock my plight. I contemplated the unthinkable—a way to end my torment, to escape the clutches of Candle Face and the endless demands of the lost souls.
But a flicker of defiance ignited in that moment of darkest contemplation. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let Candle Face win. The souls who had come to me and shared their stories of woe deserved more than to be pawns in her cruel game. I owed it to them and myself to fight back, to find a way to break the cycle of suffering.
With trembling hands, I began to write, pouring my fears, my resolve, and my desperate plea for help into the words. This journal entry will be a beacon, a call to arms for anyone who would listen and dare to stand against the darkness.
Hovering over my keyboard, a storm of emotions swirling within me, I hesitated. The act of committing my thoughts to words, of documenting my encounter with Candle Face, felt like both a declaration of war and an admission of vulnerability. The shadows in my home office seemed to lean closer as if eager to read over my shoulder, whispering doubts and fears with every click of the keys. Yet, with each word typed, a strange resolve began to crystallize within me. It wasn’t peace, not precisely, but rather a kind of grim determination, a recognition of the path I had chosen—or perhaps the path that had chosen me.
I understood the twisted intent behind Candle Face’s actions in the clarity of my latest revelation. She had unveiled the full scope of her wickedness, not to cow me into submission but to orchestrate her perverse form of revelation. She craved not the shadows but the spotlight; she yearned not for concealment but for recognition. Candle Face desired for her story and those of her victims—the lost souls—to be spread far and wide by me. She sought exposure, a conduit through which the world would learn of her existence and the depths of her power. It dawned on me that she wanted me to serve as the savior of the lost souls and herald of her own dark gospel.
Was this her grand scheme? To use me, to use her victims, as pawns in a game that expanded her infamy? The notion kindled a fire within me. If Candle Face believed that using me to spread her story would only enhance her reign of terror, then perhaps there was a way to turn this ploy against her.
My resolve to help the lost souls now carried a dual purpose. Yes, I aimed to offer them solace, to fight for their peace against the odds. But I also recognized an opportunity to reshape the story. If Candle Face wanted her story told, I would see to it—but on my terms. I would expose her power and cruelty and the resilience of those who stood against her, the strength of spirits unbroken even in the face of her torment. I would spread the word of her existence, yes, but woven with the stories of defiance and hope that she unwittingly fostered.
This understanding fortified my determination. Helping the lost souls was no longer just a mission of mercy but an act of rebellion. By sharing their stories, and by extension, Candle Face’s, I wasn’t merely amplifying her legend but challenging it. Every soul I aided and every story I told became a testament to the power of hope and the enduring light of humanity in the face of darkness.
Candle Face had underestimated the impact of her demand. She saw me as a mere tool for her glorification, but in her pride, she provided me with the means to undermine her. She sought to make me a harbinger of despair, but I would become a beacon of hope.
I found my true calling in this complex dance of shadows and light, where Candle Face sought to use me as a pawn in her grand design, not just as a medium between the living and the dead but as a warrior in the battle against darkness. For the lost souls, for those who suffered under Candle Face’s reign, and for the very essence of what it meant to resist evil, I would continue to help. I would tell their stories and hers, but I would ensure that the account spoke of hope, resilience, and the possibility of redemption in the face of utter despair.
Candle Face may have wanted exposure, but I would give her more than she bargained for. I would expose the cracks in her armor of terror—the stories of those who fought back and those who, even in their darkest moments, never gave up hope. This was the story I would tell, the mission I would embrace. In the end, the power of a story well-told lies not in the fear it instills but in the hope it inspires.
As I continued to write, I felt less alone. The thought of those who might read my words, who might find in them the courage to join the fight, offered a semblance of comfort. I knew the journey ahead would be dangerous, with Candle Face and her minions arrayed against us. But the resolve that had started as a flicker grew stronger, fueled by the prospect of solidarity, of a community forged in the fires of shared struggle and purpose.
In that moment of clarity, I realized that the battle against Candle Face wasn’t just about saving “The Lost Souls” from their torment but about reclaiming our light, our strength in the face of overwhelming darkness. It was a fight not just for survival but for meaning—for the right to define our own stories in the face of an enemy who would have us believe we are powerless.
Though the path ahead remains uncertain, one truth stands unwavering: I am not alone. We form a nexus of hope and defiance, a collective will to confront the darkness and emerge victorious. The stakes are high, not only for the souls Candle Face has claimed but for our essence, our own stories yet to be told.
And so, with a heavy and hopeful heart, I resolve to continue this fight. For the lost, the living, and myself, I will wield my words like a beacon in the night, a signal that we are here, we are united, and we’ll not yield. As long as I draw breath and hope flickers within me, I’ll stand against Candle Face and all she represents. I’ll fight—not just for salvation, but for the very soul of our world.
As I stand at the cliff of this daunting journey, my resolve is bolstered by the revelation of Candle Face’s craving for exposure. She seeks to spread her tale of terror through me, but in her arrogance, she has handed me the very tool that could lead to her undoing. I’ll indeed tell her story and the stories of the lost souls, but not with the voice of fear she anticipates. Instead, I’ll wield my words as weapons of truth, illuminating her darkness and revealing the strength and resilience of those who refuse to succumb to her shadow.
“Who’s with me?” I type these words, a rallying cry that leaps from the screen, transcending the digital confines to reach out to the hearts and minds of those who stand against evil in all its forms. This isn’t just my fight; it’s ours. Together, we can challenge the story of despair that Candle Face seeks to weave, replacing it with one of hope and defiance.
I commit to writing more frequently about Candle Face and her evil deeds, about the plague of the lost souls and their unyielding spirit. My words will serve as beacons, guiding those trapped in darkness toward the light of resistance. I will take to TV, radio, and podcasts, sharing these testimonies with anyone willing to listen, updating my website with the truths we uncover together, and even taking to the streets with flyers if need be. Whatever it takes to spread the word about Candle Face’s evilness and rally a force capable of standing against her.
This isn’t a path I walk alone. As I push forward, making every effort to expose Candle Face’s malice, I invite you and all who find themselves reading these words. Will you join me in this fight? Will you stand with me against the darkness, armed with nothing but our collective will and the power of our shared stories?
The battle ahead is uncertain, but one thing remains clear: we’re stronger together. Candle Face seeks to divide and conquer, to isolate us in fear. But in unity, strength can turn the tide against her.
So, I ask again, “Who’s with me?” Let us band together, a united front against the darkness, each of us a beacon of hope in the night. We’ll fight for the lost, the living, and the very soul of our world. And in our unity, we will find our salvation.
Key To Understanding
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