December 7, 2023
It’s been a week since my last nocturnal visitor, and I’ve started to wonder if they’ve moved on. It’s strange—what once filled me with dread now has me waiting, even hoping, for another encounter. I’ve stopped taking afternoon naps so I’ll be tired by nightfall, and instead of staying up late, I’m turning in early. I want to be ready if another spirit shows up.
So far, my role has been simple: I listen to their stories and write them down. Even though I haven’t made a real difference yet, I’m holding on to the hope that someday I’ll be able to guide these spirits to the peace they’re seeking.
Then, something finally happened. Right after I finished saying my prayers, I noticed movement in the shadows of my room, as if they were dancing. Slowly, the shadow took shape, forming into a young woman. She walked toward me with urgency, like every second mattered, and I could feel how desperate she was to speak. Here’s what she told me:
It started at a gas station. I was trying to escape the encroaching night, and as I walked inside, I noticed a young girl with messy hair pass me. Her presence tugged at a memory—a story I’d heard at the women’s group home where I was staying.
Late at night, we’d gather and talk about the ghost of a girl who died in a fire. They said she haunted those who doubted her, punishing skeptics with vengeance. At the time, the story barely registered. I was too wrapped up in my own struggles—my mental health, my demons. The legend seemed like a distraction from problems that were far more real to me.
That night, as I stood in the soft glow of the gas station lights, I couldn’t help but chuckle. “If she were real,” I said to myself, “she’d know life has scarier demons.”
After leaving the gas station, I decided to take the longer route back to the group home. I wanted some quiet, time to gather my thoughts. The path wound through a stretch of woods off the main road. The trees rustled gently in the breeze, and for a moment, it felt peaceful.
But then, I felt it—a prickle on the back of my neck, hot and sharp, like someone was watching me. I quickened my pace, trying to shake off the feeling, but then I heard it: a whisper, so faint I almost missed it. “Believe...”
My heart pounded as I spun around, but there was nothing there. Just the woods, stretching endlessly into the dark. I cursed my imagination and started walking again, faster this time.
That’s when I saw the glow. It came from the woods to my right—a soft, flickering light. Curiosity pulled me toward it, and I found an old, weathered tent hidden among the trees. The flaps were unzipped, and inside, a single candle burned. Sitting next to it was a little girl. Her eyes were pools of sorrow, and her gaze locked onto mine like she was looking straight into my soul.
“Do you believe now?” she asked, her voice soft.
I froze, stammering, “I…I don’t know what to believe.”
The wind roared suddenly, snuffing out the candle. Night swallowed the tent, and she was gone.
I ran. Regret pressing down on me with every step. Why had I taken that path? Why had I mocked the legend? For days after, I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was still there, her presence lingering in the woods. Every flicker of light, every rustling leaf, seemed to carry the same question: Do you believe?
A week later, I found myself drawn back to the gas station. I didn’t want to go, but something inside me wouldn’t let it go. I needed to know if the tent was still there. It was. This time, the flaps were zipped shut. My hands trembled as I unzipped them.
Inside, the space was filled with candles, their soft glow lighting up every corner. And there she was, standing in the center. The flames lighted her face.
“Why?” I asked, my voice shaking. “Why me?”
“You needed to believe,” she said. “In life, you fought your demons, but you never believed in me. You invalidated my pain, my existence.”
Tears streamed down my face as I said, “I believe now. I see you. I understand.”
The candles flared, their flames stretching toward me. She stepped closer until her face was inches from mine. “It is too late,” she said softly.
And then everything went dark.
Days later, they found my lifeless body in those same woods. The cause of my death remained a mystery, but the legend of the girl ghost, Candle Face, took on a new chapter. She wasn’t just a myth to scare children anymore; she had become a symbol—a reflection of how deeply humans need to be seen, believed, and understood.
The spirit finished her story and looked at me, waiting for a response. For the first time during one of these visits, I sat upright. I reached out my hand, and she mirrored the gesture. But before we could touch, an ear-splitting screech erupted from the shadowy corner of my room. She pulled back instantly, retreating into the portal and vanishing.
I rushed downstairs, determined to capture every detail while it was fresh in my mind.
Personal Note to My Readers
This encounter made me reflect on how much my view of fear and the supernatural has changed. At first, these nightly visits terrified me, but now they spark curiosity and a sense of purpose.
The young woman’s story was deeply human—a need for acknowledgment and validation wrapped in a supernatural experience. Reaching out to her wasn’t just about helping; it was about recognizing her pain and showing her that she mattered.
Even the screech, which would have sent me into a panic before, only strengthened my resolve. I’ve come to see these spirits not just as haunting figures but as mirrors, reflecting parts of ourselves we often avoid. Their stories challenge us to confront what we believe—and why it matters.
This encounter reminded me that belief isn’t just about ghosts or legends. It’s about connection, understanding, and the power of listening.
Key To Understanding
Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One]
Visit Us Online
1_edited.png)
Comentarios