December 15, 2024 It’s been two weeks since Candle Face’s Master Shadow left a riddle for me to figure out who he is. My mind has been on overdrive since then, trying to put it all together. I’ve been sitting at my desk for hours now, hunched over my computer and a stack of notes with a stiff neck and burning eyes. It’s well past 3:00 am, and I can still feel the lingering heat in the air from that night two weeks ago. My wife is asleep down the hall, blissfully unaware of the chaos I’ve allowed into our lives. The crystal ball rests on the center of my bookshelf behind me like a guilty secret. It’s been inert in the days since the attack, its surface clear and still. No sparks of red light flicker inside, no silhouettes swirl within. Yet I know what happened was real. My throat is still a bit sore from where that monstrous hand hoisted me into the air. Before I lose my mind, I need to document the results of my ongoing investigation. Two weeks ago, after the Master Shadow vanished back into the crystal ball, it left me with a cryptic riddle: I was freed to kill but bound again. My name is yelled, though I bring silence. Look where the broom sweeps, and you’ll find my mark. Shortly after the Master Shadow’s visit, I grasped at the first symbolic interpretation that came to mind: fire. I reasoned that fire, when unleashed, kills indiscriminately, only to be snuffed out (“bound again”) once it’s contained. People shout “Fire!” in fear, yet fire’s aftermath often leaves a silent, charred landscape. And ash, what remains of a burned home, must be swept up. “Look where the broom sweeps” could mean ashes. It wasn’t a bad guess in my rattled state. At the time, it made a neat sort of sense. But as I continued my research over these last two weeks, I realized it’s too simplistic. The Master Shadow is too cunning and personal to be something as impersonal as a mere element. This entity’s words and actions suggest a deliberate taunt, a clue meant to be deciphered. And so, over many late nights since the attack, I’ve been investigating every angle. As a former investigator, I know that sometimes you have to list out all the possibilities before you can narrow them down. The riddle gave me three main clues: Freed to kill but bound again: This suggests a cycle—someone once restrained, then released, allowed to do harm, and then restrained once more. “Bound again” strongly suggests a person who was captured, imprisoned, or otherwise contained, freed at some point, and then recaptured. My name is yelled, though I bring silence: The name is shouted, perhaps as a warning or a cry of alarm. If it’s a person, their name might have been notorious, invoked in fear or anger. Yet this entity “brings silence,” which might mean death. Although initially I considered the word “Fire!” here, over these last two weeks I’ve leaned toward something more human, something that leaves lasting scars rather than just ashes. Look where the broom sweeps, and you’ll find my mark: The broom is the most peculiar part. Why a broom? What mark would it leave or reveal? If not ashes, could it refer to something else involving a broomstick? Or is it symbolic? Two weeks of searching helped me realize this might be literal, pointing to a killer known for using a broomstick. Many murderers have nicknames that evoke certain images—Jack the Ripper, the Night Stalker, the Boston Strangler. Two weeks of late-night research and re-checking my old case files, and still nothing definitive until I searched specifically for a “Broomstick killer.” Surprisingly, it led me to Kenneth McDuff, known as the “Broomstick Killer.” Before committing fully to McDuff, I also considered other avenues: Mythological or Urban Legends: I thought of witches, Baba Yaga, and the idea of “Witch!” being yelled in old towns as a warning. But witches and broomsticks felt too mythic, not modern. And the Master Shadow seemed tied to a more recent evil. Firearms and Shouting “Fire!”: In the following days after the attack, I reconsidered my initial guess. Guns don’t really connect with brooms, and they aren’t “freed and bound” in a legal sense. That path went nowhere. Other Killers or Criminals with Cyclical Freedom: I spent many hours over the last two weeks revisiting notorious criminals who were imprisoned, released, and then killed again. The U.S. criminal justice system has seen its share of such cases. Names like Ted Bundy came to mind—he escaped and killed again. But “Bundy” wasn’t yelled as a warning, nor was there any broom connection. Most such criminals lacked that unique broomstick element I needed. Returning to the broom clue was my breakthrough. Kenneth McDuff was infamous in Texas, known for a brutal killing spree and for using a broomstick as a weapon in one of his earliest murders. He was sentenced to death (bound), then later paroled (freed) due to legal changes and prison overcrowding, killed again, and was eventually captured, tried, and executed (bound again) permanently. His life and crimes match the riddle almost too perfectly. Now, does McDuff’s case fit the rest of the riddle? “My name is yelled, though I bring silence.”In Texas, McDuff’s name was synonymous with judicial failure and terror. Communities cursed his name and shouted it in anger, protest, and outrage at the system that let him go free. In this sense, his name was “yelled” as a warning and condemnation. The silence he brought was the silence of the grave—his victims and their families left in mute horror. “Look where the broom sweeps, and you’ll find my mark.”McDuff earned the nickname “Broomstick Killer” due to his use of a broomstick in a murder. This line directly references that nickname, guiding me to him as if the Master Shadow wanted me to know who he was. Over the past two weeks, I’ve also connected another dot: a newspaper snippet about a prostitute named Crystal, murdered in north Austin. I recall a lost soul named Crystal who reached out to me on May 24, 2024 . She mentioned her killing in north Austin. At the time, I assumed it was a Candle Face follower directly behind her murder. But now, seeing Crystal’s name linked to McDuff’s known or suspected victims, I’m convinced that the spirit I spoke to was one of his victims. Was McDuff, a Candle Face follower, killed in her name and now rewarded for his work by becoming the Master Shadow? Had Crystal’s spirit been trying to guide me towards McDuff’s identity all along? Two weeks of re-reading old notes and comparing dates and details suggest she may have. If Candle Face can summon or control the evil spirits of history’s worst murderers, then the Master Shadow’s appearance and riddle serve as a grim test. Now that I may have solved it, I feel both satisfaction and dread. Could there be another killer who fits this pattern? Someone else freed, bound again, associated with a broom? After extensive searching, I found no one else so uniquely tied to this particular weapon. McDuff was paroled, killed again, and then executed. It’s a well-documented historical chain of events. The broomstick detail is too specific to be a coincidence. I should also address why I first thought of fire. That night, two weeks ago, I was reeling from the attack. The Master Shadow’s grip was searing hot, and my mind latched onto the idea of shouting “Fire!” as a warning call. In hindsight, the personal nature of the riddle, the historical weight, and my investigative instincts all point to a human monster, not a natural element. Fire doesn’t care who it kills, and it doesn’t make threats about returning. The Master Shadow does. The fact that Candle Face can conjure or channel the spirit of a notorious murderer like McDuff speaks to her power. McDuff’s name is a byword for legal failure, cruelty, and terror—precisely the kind of energy Candle Face might exploit. Two weeks have passed since the Master Shadow’s attack. In that time, I’ve grown more certain of the Master Shadow’s identity and purpose. If he truly is Kenneth McDuff’s spirit, then I’m dealing with something beyond a mere haunting. Candle Face might be leveraging the psychic remnants of killers to enforce her will or terrify those who oppose her. I think I remember from somewhere that the worst of Candle Face’s followers who kill for her become shadows. But I can’t remember where that came from. In any case, The Master Shadow said he’d be back. I believe him. For now, I will keep documenting everything. I understand more now than I did on the night of the attack. Knowledge is the only weapon I have, and I’ve spent the past two weeks wielding it to solve this riddle. The connection to Crystal’s murder provides a heartbreaking link: a victim’s lost soul reached out to me months ago, and only now do I understand the significance. Now that I may know the Master Shadow’s identity, I feel a strange calm settling over me. I’ve ripped back the wool Candle Face tried to pull over my eyes. If I’m right about the Master Shadow’s identity, then perhaps by naming him, I can find a way to destroy him along with Candle Face. I’ll continue researching Candle Face’s methods. How are these killers’ spirits summoned or contained? Are there historical precedents for this kind of necromantic practice? Over the next days and weeks, I’ll dig deeper into archives, old ritual texts, and reported hauntings. Crystal’s story might hold further clues. For tonight, I’ll put these notes away. The clock is edging toward dawn, and my eyes are heavy. Two weeks have passed since the nightmare began, and I’ve made progress. I think I’ve identified the culprit behind the riddle. He’s likely Kenneth McDuff - the Broomstick Killer. And I know he’s under Candle Face’s control. The Master Shadow promised to return, but this time, I’m better prepared. I understand the enemy I face. That will have to be enough for now. Key To Understanding To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, it’s crucial to be familiar with Arthur Mills’ award-winning memoir The Empty Lot Next Door ,  inspired by actual ghostly events in Austin, TX. The memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills

AI-generated, but a true depiction of paranormal enthusiasts December 8, 2024 For two months, I’ve been searching for a paranormal podcaster willing to host a meeting between Mr. Smoe and me. The goal was to discuss the conflicting viewpoints surrounding Candle Face. According to Mr. Smoe, who claims to be a Candle Face disciple, she's a compassionate spirit who aids those in need. This stands in contrast to her ruthless killings of non-believers. I thought such a unique and profound discussion would intrigue the paranormal podcast community. Instead, I’ve been met with excuses, fear, and disinterest. Many claim they’re “too busy,” while others outright refuse, admitting that Candle Face’s story is too terrifying for them to touch. It’s hard to reconcile this with the image they project online—brave investigators chasing entities, taunting spirits, and claiming to face the paranormal head-on. During one recent podcast, a popular host—someone known for his so-called bravery—admitted he was uncomfortable discussing a demon. Instead, the topic veered into something far less supernatural: poop. Yes, a man who claims to confront spirits was too scared to discuss a demon but chose instead to focus on excrement. If that doesn’t sum up the state of paranormal entertainment, I don’t know what does. I’ve spoken before about my frustrations with the paranormal community. Time and again, I’ve had to do most of the work myself because those I approached were either too scared or too focused on entertainment to take this seriously. Their bravery often feels like a performance—one that crumbles the moment true danger appears. Still, I can’t give up. The lost souls who visit me deserve better, and I'll continue to seek out serious, professional members of the paranormal community who are willing to help. My faith in finding them is dwindling, but I owe it to the souls who depend on me to keep trying. In the meantime, I’ve turned to you, my readers. You’ve been my most reliable allies so far; I’m deeply grateful for that. Key To Understanding To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, it’s crucial to be familiar with Arthur Mills’ award-winning memoir The Empty Lot Next Door ,  inspired by actual ghostly events in Austin, TX. The memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills

December 2, 2024 Tonight, I tried something I’ve done before with success. Sitting before the crystal ball, I focused harder than ever, pushing myself to connect with a lost soul. I wanted to slip into their world, to see what they saw at the moment they were killed—by Candle Face or her followers. Maybe I could find better clues as to who they were and identify their killers. The kitchen lights flickered, faint at first and then violently, snapping me out of my trance. I turned, and there she was—a young woman no older than her mid-twenties, with an oddly warm presence despite her ghostly form. Her face bore a sad but gentle expression, her voice soft as she greeted me with a simple, “Hello.” Honestly, I was hoping to avoid a nocturnal visitor tonight—just me and the crystal ball. Low-key séance vibes. But there she was, standing in my dining room like she owned the place. As she began to speak, the crystal ball between us changed. The soft light inside turned dark, swirling violently. An extreme heat settled over me, and she stopped speaking mid-sentence, her eyes darting toward the ball. Her form flickered, unstable, as she turned to me and then toward the ceiling. “Hide!” she screamed, her voice breaking. Her ghostly outline shimmered, and for a moment, it felt like the entire room was about to collapse under her panic. It happened quickly. A shadow poured from the crystal ball, expanding and solidifying into a humanoid form with an aura of evil that I’d only felt when Candle Face visited me. Its edges flickered like smoke, curling toward me, but its core pulsed with a deep reddish light. It spoke in a low and throaty voice, each word vibrating through my chest. “I am the shadow of Candle Face,” it said, its form towering over me. “For months, something has been amiss here. Energy out of place. I’ve come to see why.” I sat frozen, unable to speak. The lost soul who had been with me moments before was gone, vanished as if she had never been there. The shadow’s massive hand clamped around my neck, lifting me off the ground. Its touch was scorching, so hot it felt like its hand and my neck fused together. My feet dangled uselessly as I gasped for air, my vision darkening at the edges. It carried me through the house, its presence sucking the cool early December air from the rooms. It lingered in every corner, even stopping in my bedroom, where my wife slept peacefully, oblivious to the nightmare unfolding. When we reached the upstairs bedroom, the shadow paused, tilting its head as if listening, sniffing the air. My heart thundered in my chest, each beat screaming for it to move on. After a long moment, it did. Back downstairs, it threw me to the ground with a force that left me gasping. “You think you’re clever,” it said, stepping closer. Its eyes—or what passed for them—flicked downward, focusing on the crystal ball. “But shadows see everything.” Its gaze lingered on the crystal ball, a red glow swirling faintly in the glass. It felt like the crystal ball itself was alive, it's surface complicit in my pain. I managed to blurt out, “Who are you?” Then, with an almost playful manner, it leaned closer and whispered a riddle: I was freed to kill but bound again. My name is yelled, though I bring silence. Look where the broom sweeps, and you’ll find my mark. The shadow began to dissipate, retreating back into the crystal ball. Before it disappeared completely, it turned to me one last time. “I’ll be back,” it said. “And next time, I won’t just be looking.” The room was silent again, but the weight of its presence lingered. I sat there, staring at the crystal ball. Freed to kill, bound again. The broom. The mark. I didn’t need to solve it to know one thing: Something terrible had been set into motion. Key To Understanding To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, it’s crucial to be familiar with Arthur Mills’ award-winning memoir The Empty Lot Next Door ,  inspired by actual ghostly events in Austin, TX. The memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills

December 4, 2024 The Master Shadow left me a riddle a few days ago that I can’t solve, and it’s gnawing at my mind: I was freed to kill but bound again. My name is yelled, though I bring silence. Look where the broom sweeps, and you’ll find my mark. I’ve spent two days deciphering its meaning, but the answer eludes me. So tonight, I’m seeking your help. I need fresh eyes, different minds—someone who might see what I can’t. Maybe the answer lies in what I’m overlooking. Or maybe it’s just another trap set by Candle Face. Key To Understanding To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, it’s crucial to be familiar with Arthur Mills’ award-winning memoir The Empty Lot Next Door ,  inspired by actual ghostly events in Austin, TX. The memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills

November 27, 2024 Exciting news to share with you all! My memoir The Empty Lot Next Door: More Than A Ghost Story - Second Edition  is officially becoming an audiobook. If everything goes as planned, it should be available by late January 2025. This marks a huge step forward, and I couldn’t be more thrilled to have my story reach a new audience. Even more exciting is the person bringing my story to life—Adharsh McCabe. After hearing his audition, I knew his voice was perfect for narrating this deeply personal story. His ability to convey both emotion and tension left me confident that he’ll honor the essence of the story while delivering a wonderful listening experience. Adharsh isn’t just an exceptional narrator; he’s produced over 20,000 projects from around the world. His expertise speaks for itself, but there’s more to him than his impressive résumé. He also juggles, practices knife-throwing, and does yoga. Hopefully, not all simultaneously, but it’s clear he’s a man of many talents. Once The Empty Lot Next Door  is complete, Adharsh will begin work on Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] . This interactive investigation will take on a whole new life in audio format, allowing a broader audience to connect with the story. Audiobooks provide a unique opportunity to reach people who might not have time to sit down and read but can listen at home, while driving, traveling, or wherever life takes them. For those in the Candle Face Chronicles  community, this format means you can engage in the investigations no matter where you are. It’s an incredible way to expand this interactive paranormal effort: to help the lost souls and join the mission to defeat Candle Face. Every new listener is a potential investigator, another mind working toward freeing the lost souls and destroying Candle Face’s influence. This expanded reach could mean more voices, more collaboration, and, ultimately, greater progress in our mission. It’s a collective effort, and I’m so grateful to everyone who has joined this mission. With the audiobooks, we’ll bring even more people into the fight. Together, we can make a difference. If you’d like to learn more about Adharsh and his incredible work, visit his website at https://adharshmccabe.com . The investigation continues, and I’m excited to bring you along every step of the way. Let’s keep listening, investigating, and pushing forward!

November 21, 2024 There I sat, watching TV in the living room, when the kitchen lights began to flicker. Of course, I know—we all know what that means. The sunroom door creaked open, and a young Hispanic woman in her early twenties walked in. Her expression was somber, her eyes hollow, and a wide, jagged hole pierced through her translucent forehead. Violence had marked her death, leaving no room for doubt. “My name is Lupe,” she began, quiet but firm. “I need you to hear what happened to me. I need someone to know the truth.” I gestured for her to sit, but she remained standing as she dove straight into her story. “I was 21 when they killed me,” she said. “That night, in 1993, I left my little girl with my parents to visit a friend. I parked in front of her house, but she didn’t answer when I knocked. She was expecting me, so I didn’t understand why she wasn’t home. Confused and upset, I decided to leave.” Her voice grew louder, anger twisting her expression as she turned away from me. “I never made it to my car.” She turned back to face me. “Some men were standing outside my friend’s house. I didn’t know them, but I smiled as I passed. That’s when I saw it—a dark truck creeping down the street. Something about it felt wrong.” She clenched her hands, her translucent fingers trembling slightly. “I didn’t even have time to react. The window rolled down, and I saw the barrel of a rifle pointing out. There was a loud crack. One of the guys by the curb grabbed his leg and fell, screaming. And then…” She paused, reaching up to touch the hole in her head. “And then the second shot came. It hit me here.” Her voice softened. “I didn’t even feel it at first. I just collapsed. I could still see them—the men in the truck. One of them smiled at me. He was wearing a hat, the kind with a feather on the side. And then they drove off, like it was nothing.” Her voice faltered, and for a moment, she was silent. I waited, then asked gently, “Were you the target? It sounds like the men were the targets.” “No,” she replied firmly, a flicker of bitterness in her tone. “I was the target. Those men, they killed me for her.” “Who?” I asked, though the answer was already forming in my mind. “Really, you have to ask?” Her voice sharpened. “You know who I mean. She’s the one they worship, the one they kill for. I didn’t know it then, but I saw her later. After I died.” Lupe’s form flickered as she continued, her words spilling out faster now, as though she feared time was slipping away. “I woke up in a place I can barely describe,” she said, her voice trembling. “It was dark, but not like the night. The shadows themselves were alive, suffocating. There were others there, trapped, silent, their faces blurred like smudged glass. I screamed, but no sound came out. That’s when I saw her.” “She stood in front of me, her face burned, melted, twisted into something no one should ever have to see. She didn’t speak, but I felt her watching me, studying me. And then she smiled, like she was pleased. Pleased that I was there.” But something didn’t sit right. “Why you?” I asked. “Why were you targeted?” Lupe hesitated, looking towards the floor. “It was random,” she said, but her voice wavered. She seemed uncertain, so I pressed her gently. “Was it really random? Or was there more to it?” Her eyes welled with tears, and she finally looked back at me. “There was a time I laughed at my friend. She believed in this ghost—a ghost that helps people but kills those who don’t believe. I thought it was ridiculous. I told her so. She got angry, but I didn’t think it mattered.” I leaned forward. “Do you think your friend had something to do with this? Did she know you’d be attacked? Is that why she asked you to come over and didn’t answer the door?” Lupe’s form shook, her tears falling silently. “Maybe. Maybe that’s why she called me over that night, but then didn’t answer the door. Maybe she… maybe she knew.” Her voice broke, and she began to sob. “She was my friend. I trusted her.” She wiped at her face, though the tears left no trace. “I didn’t understand then, but I do now. Candle Face’s followers, they’re everywhere. They watch, they listen, and they choose. My death wasn’t random. It was a warning, a punishment. I laughed at the wrong story, and for that, they killed me.” As her figure began to fade, she said, “Please. Don’t let them forget me. Don’t let them forget what they’ve done.” The lights stopped flickering, leaving the room still and quiet. Lupe’s death wasn’t a random act of violence but a calculated act of devotion to Candle Face. A twisted reminder of how far her followers will go. Lupe, I will not forget. Personal Note to My Readers Lupe said Candle Face’s followers are everywhere. What does that even mean? Are they confined to Central Texas, where most of the victims are, or do they stretch beyond to other parts of the state, the country, or even the world? And then there’s the question of truth itself. Was Lupe truly killed for Candle Face, or was her death just another act of violence? She wanted me to know the truth, but why did she say it was random? Was she protecting her friend, even though she may have been involved in her death? Maybe the truth isn’t just about what we know—it’s about what we’re willing to believe. That belief, whether it’s in Candle Face, in justice, or in hope, shapes our reality. So, I leave you with this: What do you believe? Key To Understanding To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, it’s crucial to be familiar with Arthur Mills’ award-winning memoir The Empty Lot Next Door ,  inspired by actual ghostly events in Austin, TX. The memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills

November 17, 2024 Now, I know the name of the lost soul who reached out to me in March and whose final moments I relived just a few nights ago. His name is Jacob, but that discovery only led to more questions. Determined to find out who he was, I turned to the internet, searching for every clue I could find. I began with the testimony he gave me back in March and the name “Jacob” that Candle Face revealed during the vision a few days ago. I started by Googling his name paired with “Missing Central Texas,” but nothing actionable came up. So, I refined the search, swapping “Central Texas” with specific towns and cities: Austin, Round Rock, and Georgetown. Still, nothing. It wasn’t until I tried “San Marcos” that something clicked. Suddenly, multiple hits appeared about a man named Jacob Newhouse from San Marcos, a college town south of Austin. Jacob Newhouse, according to several local news reports , was 45 years old when he disappeared last year. He was last seen on November 28, 2023, and tragically, he was found dead on December 9, 2023. The reports state that foul play wasn’t suspected, but they did mention concerns about his mental health. Some sources suggested he might have had intentions to harm himself. After finding his name, I turned to Facebook, hoping to learn more about this man who may have visited me as a lost soul. I found an account belonging to a Jacob Newhouse from San Marcos. The most recent posts were emotional—two desperate pleas for help on November 29, 2023, asking if anyone had seen him. But the strange thing? These posts were made after Jacob went missing. According to a comment thread, someone had found Jacob’s phone and used it to send out those distress posts. Scrolling through his older posts, I came across one from October 23, 2023. It showed a dirt path sloping down into a dense wooded area. The scene was similar to the one I saw in my vision. Could this be the exact place where Jacob ran, fleeing from shadows in my vision? But the most terrifying revelation came when I stumbled upon a video post from October 5, 2023. In the video, Jacob was playing on what looked like a leather-bound instrument—perhaps a makeshift drum, or even a suitcase. As I hit play, my heart skipped a beat. The rhythm—it was the exact drumbeat I heard during my vision. The same beat that synchronized with my heartbeat and the flickering lights in my kitchen. The caption under the video simply read: “Help me… sound is… incomplete!!!” I played the video over and over, trying to make sense of it. The beat was relentless yet mesmerizing, a hypnotic rhythm that Jacob seemed both proud of and frustrated with. At the end of the clip, he abruptly stops, shaking his head and waving his arms in frustration. That’s when I realized what he meant by “…incomplete.” Jacob was searching for the perfect ending, an elusive conclusion to his music. And in both his March testimony and my vision, Candle Face taunted him, mocking his obsessive quest for musical perfection. The connection is too strong to ignore. Candle Face called me Jacob in the vision, and I found a “Jacob” who lived in San Marcos, played the same drumbeat, and went missing shortly before being found dead. What are the odds? Personal Note to My Readers I know some of you may notice something different in this entry—I included his name this time, despite my previous resolve not to reveal the names of the lost souls, out of respect for their living relatives. The truth is, I’m struggling with this decision every single day. How can I truly help these lost souls if I can’t reveal who I think they are? After all, the souls come to me to be identified. They want their stories told, their names spoken. If I don’t name them, what good is the information I discover? Intelligence, after all, must be actionable. But is this the right action? By revealing names, am I helping them find peace, or am I dragging their families into a nightmare they never asked for? Am I opening wounds that should stay closed? What if I got the identities wrong? I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’m walking a razor’s edge between helping these souls and violating the privacy of their loved ones. If I reach out to Jacob’s family, will they see it as an act of compassion, or will they call me a freak, another lunatic obsessed with ghosts? I fear the latter, yet the pull to do something is almost unbearable. I’m asking you, my readers, for your guidance. Should I continue to name these lost souls, even if it risks causing pain to their families? Should I reach out directly to their loved ones, knowing I might be branded as some sort of monster? Or do I keep their names hidden, knowing that this might mean leaving their stories unfinished, their souls still bound to Candle Face? I don’t have the answers. I’m just trying to find a way to do right by these souls who reach out to me, and by their families who may or may not want to know the truth. Please, if you have any advice or insight, let me know. I’m haunted by Jacob’s drumbeat, by the plea in his music. Is it a cry for help, a message he’s desperate for me to decipher? Or is it simply the beat of a lost soul who can’t find his way home? The lost souls are counting on us, and so am I. While the name “Jacob” was revealed to me in a vision, I want to clarify that any connection to real individuals, including Jacob Newhouse from San Marcos, is based on publicly available information and should not be taken as definitive proof. My intention is not to cause distress to any living relatives, but rather to seek understanding and provide help to those who reach out to me. Key To Understanding To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, it’s crucial to be familiar with Arthur Mills’ award-winning memoir The Empty Lot Next Door ,  inspired by actual ghostly events in Austin, TX. The memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills

November 14, 2024 Two nights ago , I experienced something that I still can’t shake off. Even now, as I sit at my desk, the drumbeat remains in my mind. It follows me wherever I go, relentless and haunting, as if it’s trying to tell me something that I just can’t grasp. Or perhaps Candle Face has implanted the sound in my head to drive me insane as she does with so many of her victims. I now know that the lost soul's name is Jacob. But who was he, really? The name alone doesn’t reveal much. I’m convinced he was the creator of that drumbeat—the one that resonated through my chest and synced with the kitchen lights. But I need to know more. Who was he? What drove him to that encounter with Candle Face and her shadows? Comparing the two encounters, one from March 22 and the other from November 12, 2024 , I notice how they both align and diverge. The first time Jacob came to me, back in March, he was desperate, speaking of shadows pursuing him relentlessly. It was a terrifying account, but back then, I could only hear his words. I knew nothing about remote viewing at the time. I felt his fear, but there was a distance between us—a separation that’s no longer there. This time, everything was different. The connection was deeper, more real. I wasn’t just listening to his testimony; I was living it. I felt what he felt, saw what he saw. And when Candle Face referred to me as “Jacob,” I was initially confused. At first, I thought she had mistaken me for him, or perhaps she was trying to manipulate me. But as the vision progressed, it became clear: I wasn’t myself in that moment—I was him. I had become Jacob. The realization hit. I was witnessing Jacob’s final moments—the day he was taken by Candle Face and her shadows. The vision revealed glimpses of his terror, the frantic drumbeat that was both a creation of his own hands and a signal of his demise. But why did Candle Face target him specifically? What was it about Jacob that caught her attention? According to his March testimony, she killed him because he didn’t follow her orders. But what were those orders? In other cases, the lost souls have shared that they were supposed to kill nonbelievers but refused. Was that Jacob's fate too? Did his defiance seal his doom? As I try to piece together more details, I’ve scoured my journal entries and the scattered clues he left behind. Jacob spoke of shadows in the woods, of a perfect rhythm that called to him—a sound he could never quite replicate. This obsession drew him into the forest, where he ultimately met his end. Now, I feel an urgent need to know more. Was he from Central Texas, like so many of the other lost souls who have reached out to me? Was he a local musician, perhaps, whose drumbeat was a signature sound that somehow led him to Candle Face? I believe that uncovering Jacob’s identity is crucial—not just for Jacob and my own understanding, but for the other lost souls who continue to reach out, desperate for help. I’m turning to the internet, hoping to figure out who Jacob was and where he came from. If you, my readers, have any information or can help me piece together Jacob’s story, please reach out. Together, we can solve this case, find out where he lived, and perhaps discover what ultimately led him into the woods. In the meantime, I’ll keep listening to that drumbeat—not that I have much of a choice. Maybe, just maybe, it will reveal the answers we need. Key To Understanding To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, it’s crucial to be familiar with Arthur Mills’ award-winning memoir The Empty Lot Next Door ,  inspired by actual ghostly events in Austin, TX. The memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills

November 9, 2024 The lost souls’ testimonies are becoming more vivid with each visit, bringing clearer images and sharper details. I’ve been documenting every word, every glimpse of their final moments, hoping to piece together the facts behind their deaths. But even with the increased clarity, some crucial details remain stubbornly out of reach. It’s like trying to put together a jigsaw puzzle with missing pieces, always feeling so close yet never quite there. I’ve tried everything—late nights, revisiting old notes, even seeking new techniques—but despite my efforts, I’ve hit a wall. For a year now, I’ve reached out to the paranormal community—investigators, psychics, mediums—anyone who might lend their expertise to uncover the identities of these lost souls and the stories behind their deaths. Every time, it’s the same response: they’re too busy, too wrapped up in their own pursuits. The disappointment is overwhelming. What happened to the sense of unity within the paranormal field? What happened to the willingness to help others? Finding readers has been just as difficult. I’m competing against millions of other authors. Everyone’s chasing the next viral story, the sensational headline that will get clicks, likes, and sales. Meanwhile, I’m here, trying to solve real cases—trying to bring peace to these souls who haunt me every night—and it feels like no one’s listening. It’s relentless, this frustration. I’m practically begging for readers to get involved and share their insights, but it often feels like I’m screaming while no one is listening. Every now and then, I question if all of this is worth it. The exhaustion of trying to engage a disinterested audience is wearing me down. But then, late at night, when the lost souls return, desperate and pleading, I know I can’t turn away. I can’t simply abandon them. I keep hoping that they might offer fresh perspectives if I can just get a few dedicated readers to notice. It’s not just wishful thinking—more eyes, more minds can sometimes see what I miss, especially when the memories are broken. But here I am, yet again, finding that I’m mostly on my own. It’s a lonely journey, but it’s the one I chose. I’ve said it before—I know I have to do the heavy lifting. Yet, despite that realization, there’s always a part of me that hopes someone, somewhere, will step forward to help. Tonight, though, something changed. I decided to stop waiting for help. I decided to push my abilities to their absolute limits. Instead of waiting for another lost soul to appear with a half-ass testimony, I took matters into my own hands. The idea came to me in a moment of frustration: what if I could see through the eyes of the killers? What if I could use remote reviewing and the crystal ball not just to listen but to become the one who took their lives? I dimmed the lights in my dining room until the darkness surrounded me. I could feel the tension in the air, as if the very shadows were watching, waiting to see what I would do. I placed my hands on the crystal ball, the cold surface familiar yet different this time, almost as if it were resisting me. My fingers trembled slightly. The mist inside the ball began to swirl, faster and faster, as if something within it was waking up. I could feel it pulling at me, a strange, almost magnetic force. For a moment, I hesitated. Was this really the path I wanted to take? Was I prepared for what I might see? But it was too late to turn back. I closed my eyes, letting go of everything—my identity, my thoughts, my fears. I let the crystal ball consume me, pulling me in. And then, suddenly, everything shifted. I was no longer myself. I was him—the killer. The Vision I’m pacing the room. My breath comes in hot, ragged bursts, each exhale mixed with the acrid scent of alcohol. There’s a heat building in my chest, a heavy pressure like a storm ready to break. The walls feel like they’re closing in, the air thick with tension. I can feel my fingers twitching, aching to lash out, to make her shut up. But she just won’t stop talking, her voice slamming into my skull like a relentless hammer. It’s always something with her, always a complaint, always a problem. “Why can’t you just be quiet for once?” I yelled, gritting my teeth so hard they feel like they’re going to crack. But she doesn’t listen. She never listens. She keeps going on about the bills, the drinking, the way I’m around people. It’s always my fault, isn’t it? The anger is boiling now, rising up in my throat like bile. My hands are shaking, my knuckles still raw from the last time I slammed them into the wall just to make her stop. I can feel the remnants of whiskey coating my tongue, the bitter taste mixing with the metallic tang of blood where I bit the inside of my cheek. My fists clench tighter, nails digging into my palms until it hurts. But that pain is nothing compared to the fire burning in my chest. She’s still standing there, looking at me with that damned expression—like she’s better than me. Like I’m the one who’s failing. Then it happens. She spits at me, and the world turns red. Hot, wet spit mixed with blood hits my cheek, and everything inside me snaps. I don’t even remember moving, but suddenly my fist is slamming into her face. The sound—a wet, crunching impact like hitting a wet sponge. There’s a sick satisfaction in it, like finally scratching an itch that’s been burning for too long. I lean in close, the sharp, metallic tang of her blood mingling with the salt of her sweat, filling my nostrils. Her eyes are wide, unblinking. “I’m sorry,” I said softly, though the words feel empty, slipping past my lips out of habit, not remorse. She spits at me again, her saliva hot against my cheek, mingling with the blood already drying on my skin. It’s her final act of defiance, a taunt even as she lies broken beneath me. Something inside me snaps again, the last thread of control done. “You don’t get to look at me like that!” My voice is a hoarse tone, almost drowned by the roar in my ears. I stand, my vision narrowing, tunnel-like, until all I can see is her face, that look of defiance burned into my mind. Without thinking, I lift my boot and bring it down hard on her skull. The impact vibrates through my leg, a dull, sickening crunch that fills the room. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. I stomp again, and again, each blow sending splatters of blood across the floor and walls. Her face—what’s left of it—turns into a mess of bone and flesh, unrecognizable, and yet I can’t stop. Finally, I stop, panting, staring down at what’s left of her. The rage is gone, but in its place is an emptiness, a hollow echo in my chest. “Carmen, you should’ve just listened,” I whisper in what’s left of her right ear. But as I look at what I’ve done, a disturbing thought came to me. She wasn’t supposed to die tonight. She was meant for something else. “She’s going to be furious,” I said to the empty room. “You weren’t supposed to die yet. I was supposed to wait, to sacrifice you later.” What have I done? Personal Note to My Readers After that vision, I couldn’t shake the name I heard him say— Carmen . The experience was so vivid, so visceral, that even after coming back to myself, I could still feel the lingering echoes of his rage, the weight of his hands around her throat, the twisted satisfaction that came with each brutal strike by his boot. I went back through my old journal entries, combing through them for anything that might connect. And then it hit me. On June 5, 2024, a spirit had come to me, identifying herself as Cayman . She spoke of a violent death at the hands of her husband, but at the time, I wasn’t certain if that was her real name or simply a distorted echo from her final moments. But now, after living through this vision tonight, I’m starting to believe that I wasn’t just witnessing a killer’s memories—I was the killer . The realization is almost too much to bear: I believe I became the husband, the one who killed Candle Face Victim # 32 , whom I had previously documented as Clean Shaven . Everything aligns—the rage, the twisted justifications, the spitting, the panic when he realized he had killed her too soon, and the name Carmen  spoken in that final, haunting moment. Writing about this experience was more difficult than anything I’ve done before. For the first time, I wasn’t just listening passively to a lost soul’s testimony or observing from a distance—I was living it. I became the killer, feeling his anger, his intoxicated thrill, his overwhelming need to silence her. It was no longer about bearing witness; it was about being fully immersed in his reality, carrying out his violent actions as if they were my own. Remote viewing and the crystal ball didn’t just show me his memories; it pulled me into his mind. I could see, feel, and think everything he did. In a strange twist, I’ve become interactive with the lost souls’ killers instead of my readers being interactive with me. This new ability is something I never anticipated. It’s both powerful and terrifying. For a year now, I’ve documented the lost souls’ accounts from afar, maintaining some emotional distance. But now, I’ve crossed a line I never imagined I would. I’m no longer just listening to their stories—I’m becoming a part of them, embodying the very people who ended their lives. It’s hard to describe the fear that comes with this realization. If I can so easily slip into the mind of a killer, what does that mean for me? Am I losing myself in the process? Will I be able to control it, or is this just the beginning of something more evil to come? Remote viewing and the crystal ball have unlocked something within me, something I’m not sure I can control—or even want to. The question that haunts me now is: How far will this ability take me? Will it truly help solve these cases, or will it consume me entirely? For now, I must continue piecing together the pieces of these lost souls’ lives, hoping to find answers and closure. I’m left wondering—who am I becoming? And will there come a time when I can no longer distinguish between myself and the memories I’m inhabiting? I can’t stop now. I owe it to these lost souls to keep going, no matter the cost. But every time I reach for that crystal ball, I wonder if this might be the moment I lose myself for good. Key To Understanding To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, it’s crucial to be familiar with Arthur Mills’ award-winning memoir The Empty Lot Next Door ,  inspired by actual ghostly events in Austin, TX. The memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills

June 21, 2024 Yesterday marked a significant milestone for me as I launched the first episode of my podcast, "Candle Face Chronicles," on June 20, 2024. This journey into the world of podcasting was both exhilarating and nerve-wracking. Still, it wouldn’t have been possible without the support of Robert Stachowicz and Sara Jane Kamyszek Villani from Get Haunted . My initial attempt at podcasting was almost a disaster. I hadn't lined up any guests until the night before the show, a planning oversight that left me scrambling. Thankfully, Rob and Sara stepped up, saving the day and ensuring that the show went on. Despite my late arrival to my own show and technical glitches caused by Gremlins that caused my image to freeze repeatedly, they kept the conversation lively and the audience engaged while I tried to figure out how to get on my own show. After the technical difficulties, I finally managed to join the podcast using my smartphone. I might not have made the best first impression, but I was eager to dive into the heart of the matter. We discussed Candle Face, her victims known as The Lost Souls, and the haunting origins tied to The Empty Lot Next Door . The podcast isn’t just about storytelling; it's about collaboration and investigation. Each episode is a collective effort, with the goal of helping these lost souls find peace by uncovering the truth behind their disappearances. This mission is supported by the “Dream Team,” composed of volunteers from various backgrounds, including paranormal investigators, psychics, mediums, remote viewers, dream interpreters, and even those with minimal paranormal experience. Their diverse perspectives bring richness to our discussions, allowing us to approach each case from multiple angles. As the two-hour debut episode wrapped up, the audience feedback was overwhelmingly positive. It was clear that while I have a lot of room for improvement, the podcast has the potential to be both entertaining and impactful, offering hope to those affected by Candle Face. Looking ahead, I'm excited to continue this journey with the "Dream Team." Together, we'll work on helping the lost souls find their bodies and identify their killers. Each week, the Dream Team members and I will investigate specific cases, present evidence, share insights, and invite viewers to contribute. The first episode of "Candle Face Chronicles" may not have been perfect, but it was a learning experience and a stepping stone toward a greater purpose. I'm deeply grateful for your support and look forward to your continued engagement as I explore Candle Face and the lost souls, guided by a shared commitment to uncovering the secrets and resolving the lost souls' stories. Key To Understanding To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, it’s crucial to be familiar with Arthur Mills’ award-winning memoir The Empty Lot Next Door ,  inspired by actual ghostly events in Austin, TX. The memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills