January 23, 2024
It’s been two weeks since my last nocturnal visitor. I started to believe they had abandoned me, seeing as I couldn’t offer any assistance. I’ve made efforts, though. I’ve contacted numerous “experts” in the paranormal field, paranormal investigators, mediums, and psychics, even sharing the spirit’s testimonies on a podcast, but to no avail. Yet, while making a snack last night, I heard something: the sunroom door opening. Thinking it was an intruder, I braced myself, only to realize it was a ghost, a victim of Candle Face. This brought me a sense of relief. I welcomed the middle-aged spirit, drenched from the rain. As he moved closer, staying within the shadows, he began to share his story:
The night was warm. I was stumbling home from a party, my steps unsteady but my mind sharp enough to find humor in the shadows. Ghost stories had been the evening’s entertainment, and I’d ridiculed them all, especially the one about a young ghost girl. Such a joke, I thought.
I was too wrapped up in my own amusement to notice when the streetlights began to dim one by one.
“Believe in some kid ghost?” I scoffed into the night, my voice louder than necessary. “It’s all just a bunch of BS.”
She appeared then as if conjured by my disbelief. A female ghost that looked older than a typical girl stepped from the darkened corner of the northern side of Longhorn Dam in East Austin.
“You do not believe,” she whispered, her voice a haunting tune that danced down my spine.
The air seemed to thicken, and I tried to laugh it off. “This can’t be real,” I said, a tremor betraying my growing fear.
“All is real if you believe,” she answered. Her words resonated with authority.
I wanted to run but found my feet weighty, my movements sluggish as though the night held me in place. The water’s edge was close, its surface gleaming like a dark mirror under the scant light.
“Why me?” I demanded a desperate shake to my voice now.
She tilted her head, and I saw her eyes’ deep and endless hollows. “Because you laughed at me. You mocked what you did not understand. And for that, you will become part of my story.”
Her small hand was suddenly on my arm, her grip iron. I wanted to scream, to call for help, but there was only silence as she drew me toward the water’s edge.
“You will not be forgotten,” she said. The words were not comforting.
Before I could comprehend the full terror of my situation, I was submerged, the water closing over my head. Her laughter, guiltless and cruel, was the last sound I heard as I was pulled down into the abyss.
In those final drowning moments, I realized that belief was not a matter of choice. It was a matter of consequence. And as the water filled my lungs, I understood the truth of Candle Face, her story’s power, and my own finality.
The man expressed his gratitude for my willingness to listen and slowly made his way back outside, departing through the sunroom door. An intriguing detail is that throughout our conversation, the man was frequently interrupted by a need to cough, causing a stream of water to flow from his mouth each time. This occurrence was quite distressing to witness, as he appeared to be in considerable discomfort, struggling with each word he tried to articulate, his face contorted in a grimace of pain with every cough. This peculiar aspect of the man being drenched led me to ponder - was his wetness a result of the rain, or was it somehow connected to the way Candle Face chose to end his life? The relentless flow of water from his mouth, more than what could be attributed to mere rain, hinted at a deeper, more evil connection to his demise at the hands of Candle Face. The water seemed almost symbolic, a haunting reminder of his tragic end, possibly linked to the way he was taken from this world.
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