March 27, 2024 My home—a sanctuary on the outskirts of town—becomes a beacon for lost souls searching for peace and resolution. I have long opened my shadows to these visitors, offering solace through my presence and the warmth of my hearth. Tonight, however, marked a change in our one-way communication, a breakthrough that promises a new dawn for myself and the lost souls seeking my help. The evening air was rich with brownies, a comforting aroma that seemed to transcend the space between our worlds. It was amidst this cozy backdrop that the side door gently swung open, signaling the arrival of a spirit, Victim # 22 , whose weary gaze soon fell upon the treats laid out on the counter. Our exchange began with a simple offer, “Would you like some?” His response, a peaceful acknowledgment of the boundaries that define our existences, marked the first proper conversation I had with a lost soul. “I appreciate the offer, but partaking in the pleasures of the living isn’t something I can do without consequences,” he said. This dialogue, brief yet profound, was a revelation. One of my nocturnal visitors shared, communicated, and genuinely connected with me for the first time. His presence and willingness to speak signaled a change I had long hoped for but scarcely believed possible. It opened the possibility that future spirits might find their voice with me, allowing for two-way conversations that could lead to tangible help—unveiling their stories, locating their remains, identifying their killers, and bringing solace to the unrestful dead and the living alike. I asked for advice in some popular Facebook paranormal groups last week, inquiring if direct conversations with spirits, akin to interviews, were possible. The responses varied, with a majority expressing skepticism about direct communication. Many suggested traditional mediums like Ouija boards, spirit boxes, or dowsing rods. I don’t think any of these devices are suitable for my case. I think I figured it out: Talk to them! It’s just that simple. This newfound ability to communicate fills me with hope, suggesting that I can genuinely assist these souls in ways I previously could not. I eagerly anticipate who might visit next, what stories they wish to share, and how I might aid them in their quests for peace. It’s as if I’ve discovered a hidden language, a key to unlocking the mysteries that tether these spirits to the living. Yet, with this breakthrough comes a weighty responsibility. The spirits have hinted at rules, at the potential consequences of our newfound communication. I must tread this path cautiously, mindful of the delicate balance between worlds, yet driven by a desire to help those with no one else to turn to. As I sit here, reflecting on this turning point, I can’t help but feel a mixture of excitement and solemnity. The bond between us—the living and the lost souls—grows stronger with each passing night. Though the future is uncertain, one thing is clear: I have found my true purpose among my nocturnal visitors. I stand ready to serve as a bridge between worlds, offering my gift as a beacon of hope for those seeking to make their final peace. This newfound communication isn’t just a chance to converse; it’s an opportunity to heal, to bring closure, and to shine a light in the darkest corners of existence. Every spirit that finds its way into my house’s shadows reminds me of the profound impact a single conversation can have. As I venture further into this uncharted territory, I do so with a heart full of hope, ready to listen, talk , help, and forever grateful for the chance to make a difference in the lives—and afterlives—of those who need it most. 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

March 28, 2024 As dusk gave way to darkness, I lit a candle, its candlelight casting long, dancing shadows across the room. I settled into the warm embrace of my massage chair to think about who my next nocturnal visitor would be and what I would ask them with my new ability to communicate directly with them. I closed my eyes. Little did I know my intentions would summon a horror far beyond any I had ever encountered. The air grew hot, the heat seeped into my bones, and the candle flames twisted into grotesque shapes. Then, she made her presence known, not as a lost soul seeking solace but as Candle Face herself. Her appearance was a nightmare made manifest, her face melting before me and flames flickering in the hollows where eyes should be. She had entered my sanctuary, a place I foolishly thought safe from such evil. Without uttering a word, she extended a sizzling hand, the waxen skin stretching into an impossible length, trapping me in a crushing and fire-like grip. In an instant, we were no longer in my living room but transported to a world of unimaginable terror — her lair, her hell, again for the second time. Candle Face’s anger was profound, a storm of rage and betrayal. She accused me of transgressing the sacred divide between the living and the dead. The lost soul, Victim # 22 , who had spoken to me the previous night, had violated a forbidden covenant, and Candle Face held me responsible. She intended to show me the actual consequence of my actions, to reveal the damage I had wrought under the guise of aid. Her lair was a crypt of despair, an endless expanse of darkness punctuated by the anguished wails of her victims. The air was thick with the stench of decay. Candle Face led me through this nightmare, our path illuminated by the ghostly light from her form. With each step, the horrors unfolded in a more terrifying manner than I could have ever imagined. Spirits, their ghostly forms shimmering with a supernatural light, were trapped in torturous devices that seemed to defy the laws of physics and mercy alike. Their bodies were twisted and stretched, contorted in unnatural angles that spoke of unspeakable agony. The air was filled with the sound of their screams, a symphony that pierced my soul and threatened to shatter my mind. These devices, powered by dark shadows, mainly in human form, seemed to feed on the suffering they inflicted, growing ever more grotesque and elaborate with each cry of pain. In this grisly gallery of torment, some of the lost souls were pursued by shadows that embodied their deepest fears. These shadows were relentless, morphing into ever more horrifying forms - giant spiders with eyes that glowed with malice, ghostly figures with faces that twisted into grotesque parodies of loved ones, and all manner of beasts and monsters that preyed on the psyche of the trapped spirits. These haunted souls ran on paths that twisted and turned, leading nowhere but back into the clutches of their fears, an endless chase that offered no break, no hope of escape. In another corner of Candle Face’s nightmarish hell, the air thrummed with the intense despair of spirits trapped in a horrifying display of unending silence. Their mouths were sewn shut with threads, and their screams stifled as they were forced to witness the replay of their most traumatic life moments on a loop, like a wicked film that knew no end. Shadowy figures yelled cruel truths and lies into their ears, stories of how their lovers had moved on, forcing them to watch mental scenes of the husbands and wives lying with their new lovers and how the world of the living had forgotten their memories. This psychological torture was a relentless assault on their sanity, a punishment that left them yearning for a voice to scream, to beg for mercy that would never come. Further into the depths, a grotesque scene unfolded where spirits were encased in mirrors that reflected not their true forms but monstrous versions of themselves instilled with all the guilt, shame, and regret they had carried in life. These mirrors didn’t simply reflect; they amplified and distorted, turning minor misdeeds into unforgivable sins and small insecurities into monstrous self-loathings. The lost souls were forced to confront these twisted reflections continually, their efforts to look away futile, as the mirrors moved to always be in their line of sight. Here, in this chamber of distorted reflections, the boundary between reality and nightmare blurred, leaving the souls trapped in a vortex of self-inflicted psychological torment, a maze with no exit and mirrors as walls, each reflection a reminder of their perceived monstrosity. Within the shadowed depths of Candle Face’s hell, I encountered torments that defied all sense of humanity, each scene a grotesque testament to the perverse cruelty that ruled this hellish landscape. Among these, my eyes were drawn to the dreadful fate of Victim # 10 , a woman who had once mockingly rejected the story of Candle Face with a rebellious display of her devil tattoo. Now trapped, she was surrounded by menacing shadows that mirrored the faces of her former companions, their jeers echoing endlessly as they flaunted marks similar to her tattoo, each ablaze with a fire that seemed to feast upon her spirit. This ironic punishment, her former mockery turned into a chain of everlasting torment, unfolded before me, vividly illustrating Candle Face’s vindictive justice. Not far from this ghoulish show, I witnessed the tragic entanglement of Victim # 18 and Victim # 19 , forever replaying their last earthly encounter. The woman, who had loved to run, was now trapped in a perpetual sprint, her Walkman emitting a symphony of despair. At the same time, her assailant, the cause of her doom, was doomed to follow her endlessly, horror etched into his features as he came to grips with the grim reality of their intertwined fates and hands. Shadowy entities chased them, embodying the man’s guilt, remorse, and appearance among the monstrous figures that pursued them. This endless chase was a dark mirror of their final moments in life, now a punishment of infinite despair. Witnessing these horrors firsthand, a sense of profound despair overwhelmed me. The realization that these souls were bound to relive their darkest moments for eternity, not as a lesson but as Candle Face’s cruel entertainment, weighed heavily upon my spirit. The lair wasn’t just a prison of physical torment but a crucible of psychological warfare, stripping away any remnants of hope. The knowledge that my attempts to connect with these lost souls had inadvertently delivered them into this nightmare was a burden of guilt and sorrow that threatened to consume me. The terror of their eternal punishment, a direct consequence of my meddling, was a harrowing revelation that shook the foundation of my resolve. Elsewhere, other spirits were caught in a cycle of despair so profound it seemed to warp the very fabric of the afterlife. They were forced to relive their final, desperate moments over and over, each iteration more intense, more agonizing than the last. Victim # 11 , The woman from the shack, relived the endless rapes and the moment of her betrayal and murder; her trust turned to terror as her boyfriend plunged the knife into her chest, the scene resetting just as she felt the life ebb from her body. A man experienced his final moments in a burning building, the flames licking his flesh, his screams unheard over the roar of the fire, only for him to be resurrected into the flames again and again. This loop of despair was a psychological torment that broke the spirits far more effectively than any physical device. Each reenactment stripped away a piece of their essence, leaving them less than they were, shadows of the souls they once had been, bound eternally to their worst moment. The air in this part of the lair was thick with the scent of fear and sorrow. This exhibition of everlasting torment was Candle Face’s hell, a landscape of suffering and despair that she ruled over with a cruel glee. Her laughter echoed through the caverns, a sound devoid of any humanity, a frightening reminder of the fate that awaited those who caught her ire. As I bore witness to these horrors, a sense of hopelessness enveloped me, a profound despair that threatened to drown me. I realized then that this wasn’t just another tour of Candle Face’s hell; it was a warning, a glimpse into the abyss that awaited those who dared to meddle in the affairs of the dead. Candle Face’s ire manifested in the gruesome surroundings and her venomous words directed at me. Her voice, a terrifying mixture of anger and screams, filled the air as she confronted me. “Foolish mortal,” she began, her words laced with a fury that made the ground beneath us tremble. “You dared to trick a soul into answering a question directly, breaking a sacred silence that has governed the dead for eons. Did you think your actions were inconsequential? Did you fancy yourself a savior?” Her form loomed over me, the flickering flames in her eyes casting unsettling shadows. Her sizzling skin popped like hot oil and splashed onto my face. “Your ignorance has wrought devastation upon those you claimed to help. Your feelings of superiority feed their endless suffering. Each spirit that has visited you, seeking solace, has been cast into the deepest pits of torment because of your meddling.” I tried to find my voice, argue, and plead for understanding, but the words died in my throat, choked by the overwhelming presence of this wrathful demon thing. Candle Face continued, her voice rising to a swelling echo that bounced off her hell’s walls. “You have not helped. You have harmed. You have not saved. You have condemned. And for that, you shall bear witness to the agony you have inflicted, an everlasting reminder of the price of your folly.” Her accusations struck me harder than any physical blow could. I realized then the gravity of my actions, the dire consequences of reaching beyond my means to intervene in the affairs of the dead. Candle Face’s anger was an intense fury against my unintended transgressions. “You sought to unravel the mysteries of death, to play at being a bridge between worlds,” she sneered, the air around us growing hotter with her every word. “But you are no bridge, Ray. You are a rift, a tear in the fabric that protects the living from the dead. Your presence has become a beacon, not of hope, but of ruin.” With those final, damning words, Candle Face’s form seemed to dissolve into the darkness, leaving me alone with the weight of her condemnation. The realization that my attempts to help had only deepened the suffering of those I sought to aid was a heavier burden than any I had ever known. Her words will haunt me, a constant echo of the pain I had inadvertently caused, a blunt reminder of the delicate balance I had so recklessly disturbed. As I stood there, enveloped by the oppressive darkness of Candle Face’s hell, the horrors I had witnessed became etched into my very soul. The laughter, the screams, the relentless torment of the lost souls—all were testaments to the disastrous impact of my actions. Candle Face’s scathing rebuke was a grim epilogue to my well-intentioned but tragically misguided endeavors, leaving me to ponder the true cost of my meddling. The lost soul that stood before me a few nights ago, casting a weary gaze over the treats laid out on the counter, was more than just a lost soul; he was a man tormented by his past and trapped by the evilness of Candle Face. As he declined the brownies offer with a sad acknowledgment of the boundaries between our existences, I realized the gravity of his situation. This lost soul, once a living man grappling with homelessness and addiction, had been led astray by promises of salvation that only plunged him deeper into despair. His journey to my home wasn’t merely by chance but a desperate search for solace in a world that had long turned its back on him. His story was a testament to the predatory nature of Candle Face. Lured by the false hope of escape from his daily struggles, he was embroiled in an evil plot that preyed on the most vulnerable. The man who had first approached him with stories of Candle Face had been a disciple of the ghost, using the desperation of the homeless to strengthen her grip on the world. This revelation shed a haunting light on the depth of Candle Face’s evil, revealing her not as a mere threat but a manipulative entity that fed on despair. The spirit’s recounting of his final moments was a harrowing story of defeat and resignation. In his darkest hour, as he sought to end his suffering through alcohol, Candle Face appeared to claim his soul, declaring that his struggles weren’t merely personal demons but a battle with forces far beyond his comprehension. This moment of surrender marked the end of his fight, leaving him trapped in a nightmare that he could neither escape nor understand. As he lingered by the brownies, a tangible symbol of the life he once knew, his yearning to taste his former existence was physical. Yet, his final words to me, “As much as I yearn for a taste of a life once familiar, some desires are best left unfulfilled,” spoke volumes. They weren’t just a resignation to his fate but an emotional reminder of the consequences of our interactions with the spirit world. I should have paid attention to his words. This spirit’s visitation and his shared story underscored the dangerous nature of my attempts to communicate with the lost souls. In trying to provide solace, I had inadvertently exposed them to further torment at the hands of Candle Face. His cautionary story highlighted the complex consequences of breaching the space between the living and the dead. It was a profound lesson in the responsibility that comes with this newfound ability to communicate, a reminder that the path I tread is fraught with dangers unseen and forces beyond my understanding. I’ll not attempt to ask questions again. I’ve done enough damage. 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

April 2, 2024 I'm slumped on my couch, overwhelmed by exhaustion yet dreading another encounter with a lost soul. The weariness is bone-deep. Night after night, I'm visited by souls in anguish. Once again, doubt has started to creep in, saying I'm not the savior they need. Perhaps it's time to surrender, to become one with the shadows. Candle Face has crafted her plan masterfully, preying on my vulnerabilities with precision. I'm at my breaking point, my faith in myself dwindling to nothing. As despair consumed me, an evil melody filled the room, stemming from the darkest corner of my living room. Materializing from the shadows was a man of the cloth, his presence marked by an inverted cross around his neck. He signaled for silence, demanding only my attention. And so, he began to share his story: My life, once a steadfast journey devoted to God’s teachings and unwavering service, had been a sanctuary for people seeking spiritual guidance amidst life’s tumultuous seas. “Never lose faith,” I would proclaim from the pulpit, my voice resonating through the strong walls of our church, echoing a belief that the sheer power of faith could surmount all adversity. Yet, amidst my unwavering declarations, I found myself unprepared for an encounter that would question the very foundation of my beliefs. On an evening painted with the vibrant hues of an Austin sunset, the legend of Candle Face shifted from a myth to reality. The atmosphere around me shifted as I ventured home from an evening service. The air thickened with a sense of dread that was almost suffocating, and an unsettling warmth wound its way through the streets. Then, as if born from the very shadows, she materialized under the dim glow of a streetlight that flickered as though hesitant to reveal the secrets it guarded. Her form contrasted the divine radiance I had dedicated my life to spreading. The burns that marred her face weren’t merely physical scars but were signs of unspeakable torment and profound loss, each one etching a deeper wound into her very essence—a history of agony. What might have once been an expression of innocence was now a grotesque display of suffering, her features a disturbing testament to her tragic fate. The most unsettling aspect, however, were her eyes—or rather, the hollow voids where her eyes should have been. These hollow depths seemed to gaze into my very soul. The sight struck a primal chord of fear deep within my being. Yet, amidst my fear and unease, I discovered an anchor in my faith. It was as though the very flames ravaging her existence were now testing the strength of my beliefs, challenging me to withstand the searing heat of this ghostly encounter. My heart, though racing, was fortified within a stronghold of spiritual conviction; my faith, hardened by years of devotion and service, remained unyielding. In that moment, my faith served as both shield and sword, a genuine stronghold against the encroaching darkness that sought to engulf me. “I do not fear you,” I declared, defiant against the oppressive silence figure before me. This declaration wasn’t born from a place of arrogance but emanated from a deep-seated belief in the protective power of the divine, a conviction that no entity, no matter how evil or sorrowful, could sway. As her terrifying yet pitiful form stood silently before me, it became the crucible within which my faith was to be tested. Facing her meant confronting the physical embodiment of the doubts and fears that haunt the minds of all believers—the existential pondering of why a compassionate God permits suffering in the world and the challenge of maintaining one’s faith in the face of inexplicable evil. Yet, standing there, under the flickering glow of the streetlight, with darkness pressing in from all sides, I felt an unprecedented strength surge within me, a reaffirmation of my life’s calling to serve as a beacon of hope and faith in a world all too often shrouded in evil. “Why do you stand silently before me, spirit? Speak up!” My steady voice declared. “I come to challenge your faith,” she finally replied as a hot breeze brushed against my face. And so, our nightly dialogues began, not as clashes of swords but as duels of belief and conviction. Candle Face, drawing upon the very scriptures I held sacred, challenged me with passages from the Bible. “Even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light,” she recited one evening, her eyes—or the voids that were her eyes—glowing with an unholy light. “How can you trust what you see or believe?” I countered with the shield of my faith, invoking the words of Christ, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” Our exchanges grew more profound as the nights progressed, a battle of wits and scripture that stretched into the depths of the night. “Why do you cling to your faith when it blinds you to the suffering around you?” she challenged on another occasion, citing the scripture, “Faith without works is dead.” “My faith compels me to love and to serve, to be a beacon of hope amid darkness,” I responded, fortified by the words, “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” Our debates raged like a storm; in each verse, she wielded a wave crashing against the steadfast rock of my conviction. Yet, with each encounter, a sliver of doubt entered my heart, eroding the bedrock of certainty upon which I had built my life. Candle Face’s mastery over scripture and her uncanny ability to wield the Word as both sword and shield left me reeling. Her challenges and questions weaved threads of doubt into the fabric of my once unshakeable faith. As the climax of our spiritual duel approached, under a sky veiled by clouds and a moon obscured from sight, she posed a question that struck at the very heart of my belief. “If God is for us, who can be against us?” she asked, her form seeming to loom larger, permeated with the gravity of her words. “Yet here you stand, against me, a creation surely within God’s domain. Does not your faith falter at this contradiction?” Her words were like a storm that threatened to capsize my soul, a flood that sought to drown me in a sea of doubt. At that moment, the foundation upon which I had built my faith trembled, and I found myself adrift, lost in the unrestrained waves of uncertainty. The undeniable truth of her presence, contrasted against my God’s unseen and unfathomable nature, tore through my belief like a ship damaged by jagged rocks. “I... I don’t know,” I finally admitted, my voice a mere whisper, a frail echo against the storm of internal conflict that raged within me. Candle Face smiled, a twisted, sorrowful smile. “Then you are mine,” she said. In that instant, I felt a searing pain in my chest, as if my very soul was being torn from my body. As the air around me grew oppressively heavy, laden with a sense of impending doom, I was besieged by doubts that swirled around me like a relentless tornado. With each step toward our designated place of confrontation, my impending downfall grew louder, a discord of despair filling my heart’s silence. In this moment of profound solitude and introspection, a tragic realization dawned upon me—a realization so disturbing and full of sorrow that it threatened to consume me entirely. The battle of faith against Candle Face’s ghostly challenges, this duel of beliefs I had so willingly entered into, was but a snare from the outset, a trap I had blindly walked into with eyes wide open. The realization that her plan had never been to triumph through argument or discourse but rather to lead me into the depths of questioning my once unassailable faith was a revelation that filled me with despair. The sorrow of this epiphany wasn’t merely in the acknowledgment of my impending demise but in the realization that my downfall was a direct result of my own actions—a testament to the fragility of human belief when confronted with the supernatural. In my enthusiasm to prove the unbreakable nature of my faith, I had been the architect of its unraveling, engaging in a battle doomed from its inception. The sadness that enveloped me wasn’t just born of the knowledge of what was to come but of the understanding that my fall from grace was self-inflicted, a tragic flaw in my quest for spiritual certainty. As I kneeled before Candle Face for what would be our final encounter, her twisted smile wasn’t just a forerunner of my defeat but a mirror reflecting the folly of my pride; a part of me yearned for the chance to turn back time, to offer a word of caution to my followers, to implore them not to tread the same dangerous path I had chosen. But the hour was far too late for warnings, far too late for the regrets that now filled me with remorse so deep it was akin to physical pain. In my final moments, as darkness took me, Candle Face granted me a vision of my church. I found myself seated in the pews of my own church, an unseen spirit among the congregation that had once looked to me for guidance, for light in the darkness. The sacred space, usually a haven of solace and peace, was now covered with doubt and betrayal, the air thick with the collective grief of those who had placed their faith in me. Instead of the prayers for my soul’s redemption that I might have expected, the murmurs that filled the church spoke of disillusionment and a sense of betrayal. They spoke of the changes they’d noticed over the last few months, corresponding with my secret debates with Candle Face. “He seemed troubled,” one said, “as if he were grappling with unseen demons.” “His sermons lost their fire,” another said, “It was as if he doubted the very words he spoke to us.” “How could he falter in his faith?” questioned one, the disbelief and disappointment evident in their tone. “He led us to believe, only to succumb to doubt himself,” accused another, their words a dagger to my already shattered spirit. Rather than being a unifying moment of faith and reflection, my passing had sown the seeds of doubt among the individuals I sought to inspire and uplift. The church that had been my life’s work, the congregation I had loved as my own, now found themselves questioning the very tenets of belief I had endeavored to instill within them. My demise hadn’t been the martyrdom I might have once envisioned but had instead become a scandal. This event eroded the faith of my followers in their preacher and, by extension, in the teachings I had so passionately adopted. As the vision of the church and its disillusioned congregation faded before my eyes, the last sight that imprinted itself upon my memory was the empty pulpit—a lonely symbol of the void my misguided endeavor had left in its wake. In my eager desire to prove the invincibility of my faith, I had, in truth, lost everything: my purpose, my flock, and the very essence of the convictions I had fought so passionately to defend. This final revelation, witnessed from the shadowed confines of the church that had once been a beacon of hope and faith, represented the most profound sadness of all. The realization that my downfall had not merely been a personal tragedy but had also led others astray, guiding them into the very darkness I had vowed to combat, was a burden heavier than any I had tolerated. The church’s loss of faith in their preacher, a man who, in confronting the embodiment of his doubts, had ultimately lost sight of his faith, marked the true triumph of Candle Face. This plot twist sealed my tragic fate and cast a long shadow over the legacy I had hoped to leave behind. In the end, the story of my life—a story once filled with hope and unwavering belief—had been irreversibly altered, rewritten as a story of conviction undone by doubt, a sad reminder of the peril that lies in the pursuit of absolutes in a world governed by questions without answers. After the preacher finished his testimony, he began to fade into the darkness from which he had appeared. Before disappearing, he paused and looked over his shoulder, locking eyes with me one final time. At that moment, his gaze had a profound weight, a mixture of resignation and a sense of duty. He shared a revelation that, despite the traumatic circumstances, he hadn’t forsaken his role as a preacher. Within the twisted, shadowy confines of Candle Face’s domain, he shepherded a new kind of flock—the lost souls. He confessed that his sermons had taken on a darkly ironic twist as he now spoke of Candle Face’s mercy, portraying her as a savior to those doomed souls. In a world where hope seemed a distant memory, he preached about finding salvation in the very entity that tormented them. This unexpected role of preaching Candle Face's compassion, even as a twisted form of salvation in her hellish domain, was a testament to the complex manipulation she wielded over her victims. It was a reminder of her power to warp reality and identity, turning a once-devout preacher into a messenger of her twisted gospel. As he stepped back into the shadows, disappearing from view, I was left to ponder the reality of his existence. The preacher, a man once driven by faith and a desire to lead others toward light and salvation, now found himself in an unimaginable predicament. Trapped in a world of darkness, preaching the virtues of the very being responsible for their suffering, he became a symbol of the ultimate psychological and spiritual conquest that Candle Face held over her victims. This revelation deepened the mystery of Candle Face’s wickedness and highlighted the tragic irony of the preacher’s fate—tasked with offering solace in a place devoid of true redemption.   Personal Note to My Readers In the heart-wrenching story of Candle Face Victim # 23, we journey with a preacher whose life was anchored in the unwavering belief in God. This man of the cloth, who had devoted his existence to shepherding his flock toward spiritual enlightenment, encountered a challenge that would ultimately test the very foundation of his faith. The preacher’s battle with Candle Face wasn’t just a confrontation with an evil spirit but a deeper, more profound struggle within his soul. His belief in God, once as steadfast as the sturdy walls of his church, began to waver under the weight of Candle Face’s cunning arguments. In this moment of doubt, when his faith faltered, he lost the battle and his life. This tragic outcome is an emotional reminder that our faith, tested or questioned, is our strongest shield against the darkness that seeks to engulf us. Holding on to that faith might be our only chance against entities as manipulative and persuasive as Candle Face. However, the task before us is discouraging. Engaging in a battle of faith against a cunning master of words, a being that can twist our deepest beliefs into questions and doubts, is a challenge of monumental proportions. Candle Face, with her ability to use our own scriptures against us, represents the internal and external conflicts that can lead even the most devout to question their path. Fighting faith with faith against such an adversary requires not just belief in the divine but an understanding and acceptance of our own vulnerabilities and doubts. It's a battle that demands resilience, courage, and, most importantly, the willingness to confront and navigate the complexities of our faith. Learning to engage in this spiritual warfare and stand firm in our beliefs even when faced with a master of deception like Candle Face is essential. It may be the most challenging fight we ever face, grappling with questions without easy answers, but it’s also the most crucial. Our faith, tested and refined through these trials, becomes stronger and more resilient. Though ending in tragedy, the preacher’s story conveys a crucial lesson: the importance of holding on to our faith, even in the face of overwhelming doubt. For in this steadfastness, perhaps, lies our redemption and our victory against the evil that seeks to dim our light: Candle Face. My own faith in myself has been restored. 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

April 7, 2024 SPOILER ALERT: This journal entry contains themes and insights from The Empty Lot Next Door . If you’re trying to avoid spoilers, it’s advisable not to read further until you’ve finished the book. Reading this journal entry may reveal important plot details you’d rather discover alone.   Did the treehouse sketch in the book The Empty Lot Next Door  resemble the real treehouse in the empty lot? No, the treehouse didn’t resemble the sketch crafted by the Indian artist to whom I tried to explain. His rendition was idealistic and spooky, somehow fitting the mood of my memory even though it didn’t mirror reality. It was good, so I accepted it. Our treehouse was a stage, sturdy and flat on the ground, bordered by the towering bark of the old oak tree. It wasn’t a sanctuary amidst leaves and branches but rather a grounded platform. Only a single 4x4 board, weathered yet firm, bridged between two limbs above. From it, a rope dangled, swinging freely in the idle breeze. We used it to swing, to imagine. Ricky used it for his stories and his illusions. Neighborhood children, eyes wide with wonder, sat at the base, enveloped in Ricky’s stories of magical adventures with his unseen companion, Griffin. His words, a mixture of ghastly stories and fanciful journeys, stirred visions in youthful hearts and minds that rivaled the stories of Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn. That tree and the treehouse, seated in the empty lot, was a canvas for memories, some warm and cherished, others like a biting wind that warned of darker times. My childhood navigated through its branches, the echoes of laughter and shrieks of fright entwining permanently within its ancient branches, both beautiful and haunting simultaneously. 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

April 12, 2024 The deeply unsettling real-world experiences of Arthur Mills compel reflection, even for the most steadfast skeptics. Discover the frightful ghost known as Candle Face, her hauntingly cruel antics, and the way she metamorphosed a boy’s childhood into a ceaseless dread in The Empty Lot Next Door . 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

April 14, 2024   In the traumatic continuation of “ Candle Face Victim # 13 : Beneath the Surface: The Drowning Ghost’s Story,” my unsettling encounters with the spirit world continue. Today, intriguing feedback on my journal entry has deepened the mystery surrounding my nocturnal visitor from late December 2023 and again on February 13, 2024. The commenter believes that Victim # 13 is a man from news stories from the late 1990s who vanished while boating with his children in Lake Travis near Austin, TX. He remembers these news stories from his high school years at Lake Travis High School.   This mention struck a nerve, compelling me to search online for “missing person Lake Travis late 1990s.” I discovered a KXAN article titled “Unsolved: The Mysteries Lurking in Lake Travis,” which detailed several drownings, including that of William Crumpacker, who disappeared in 1998 while camping with his sons. This detail resonated deeply because ‘William’ is the name the spirit used in a ghost story he narrated during a boating trip, the same night he encountered Candle Face, leading to his tragic drowning.   Intrigued by these uncanny parallels, I dug deeper and learned that William Crumpacker was a Dell marketing manager who went missing under mysterious circumstances after a late-night swim from his boat in Little Devil’s Cove on Lake Travis while his children slept onboard. His body was never found.   In late December 2023, a spirit matching William’s description visited me, recounting his tragic end in Lake Travis. I initially neglected to record his visit in my journal. However, after a startling second encounter in February 2024—where the spirit rebuked my inattention by striking me twice and vomiting in my mouth—I diligently documented his story. The disturbing details of the first visit were shared in my January 11, 2024, interview with Beyond Believe Talk .   Now, as each night arrives, urging me to believe and respect the stories that waft through the shadows of my home, I find myself pondering the identity of this persistent spirit. Could it truly be William Crumpacker? And if so, what steps should I take next? I'm at a loss without guidance from the spirits and direct communication thwarted by Candle Face’s punitive measures.   As I brace for whatever may come next, I reach out to you, my readers, for guidance. Have any of you encountered Candle Face or spirits demanding acknowledgment? Your stories and insights could illuminate the path as I navigate this shadowed journey. 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

April 15, 2024 After squandering several hours watching Facebook and YouTube videos on my phone, I guiltily set it aside and began my nightly routine, settling on the sofa for sleep. As I walked over to switch off the light, the room plunged into darkness, revealing the silhouette of an unexpected visitor in that fleeting moment of dimness. I froze, eyes locked on the shadowy figure, waiting for it to initiate an encounter.   Sensing my hesitation, the figure moved closer and propped against my bar. The dim light didn’t reveal much, but the outline of a long knife protruding from his chest and another from his neck was unmistakable. He caught my wary gaze and said in a blood-soaked, gurgling tone, “Seems I’ve overstayed my welcome in the living world, wouldn’t you agree?”   I remained silent, aware that any interaction might further entangle him with Candle Face. He leaned casually against the bar, the knives in his form glinting slightly as he began to recount the story of his death. The morning sun hadn’t yet crept over the horizon when I agreed to join my cousin and his friend on what was promised to be an easy trip for quick money. The plan was simple: drive from Austin to Houston, pick up a load of weapons to be sold back in Austin, and pocket the cash. “No sweat,” my cousin had assured me. We left Austin mid-afternoon on Highway 183. We reached the small town of Luling. We veered off Highway 183 and headed north on Salt Road for several minutes. A gnawing sense of unease took root in my stomach. “We need to pick up our first box of gat here,” my cousin had mentioned, his casual tone doing little to ease the tension that had suddenly filled the car. The house we stopped at was as nondescript as they come, blending into the town’s backdrop. But the moment we entered, I felt the final threads of my trust unravel. The air felt charged, the silence too heavy, as if the very atmosphere was laden with secrets and warnings I couldn’t quite grasp. With every step I took inside the house, the unease grew like a dark cloud descending upon me. The betrayal came swiftly and cruelly without warning. In a blur of motion and confusion, my cousin and his friend turned on me, sealing my fate. The knife held by my cousin struck first, hitting me between my ribs and then into my heart. The second knife found my neck. The last thing I saw was the grim determination in their eyes, a sight that etched a deep sense of betrayal in my dying heart before darkness took me. Buried beneath the house, I found myself in limbo, a ghostly observer of the continuation of events I was no longer physically part of. I watched, powerless, as they drove to Houston to pick up some weapons, then north on Interstate Highway 45 for about 30 minutes. They stopped at an apartment to pick up more weapons. Then, they made their way to Interstate Highway 10 and made a calculated stop in San Antonio to dispose of my belongings before heading back to Austin—a feeble attempt to mislead any investigation into my disappearance. As I lingered in this in-between world under the house, the screams grew louder, a frightening choir that seemed to mock my predicament. It was then that the story took an unexpected turn. The duo received a summons from Candle Face to return to the house. In the haunted gloom of the house under which my body lay, Candle Face awaited with my cousin and his accomplice. As she began to speak, the air crackled with an overwhelming surge of evil energy. Her voice was a haunting melody of menace and mockery, a testament to the supernatural forces at play. “So, you thought you could decide his fate without consulting me?” Candle Face’s cold and mocking laughter echoed through the house’s shadows. “You two, sharing the same name, emboldened by a bond you thought granted you invincibility.” My cousin, trying to mask his fear with braveness, replied, “We did what we thought was necessary. He wouldn’t have believed in you anyway.” “Belief,” Candle Face mused, her voice dripping with amusement. “Such a fragile thing, yet it holds the key to power. And you,” she turned her unseen gaze to where I stood in my ghostly form, “you doubted my existence.” I found my voice, “I never believed in the paranormal. I believed in what I could see and touch.” “And yet, here you are, touched by the very shadows you denied,” Candle Face retorted, her laughter filling the room once more. “You see, your disbelief has brought you into my world. And these two,” she gestured to my cousin and his friend, “have unwittingly served me despite their ignorance.” With a hint of respect in her tone, she explained that the town and the house were ancient sites of power, chosen for their connection to the space between worlds. The betrayal, orchestrated on such sacred ground, had inadvertently fulfilled a summoning ritual. Turning to my cousin and his friend, she continued, “You share a name I know all too well. It’s no coincidence, you know. It’s a marker, a sign of potential I seek in my servants.” They exchanged uneasy glances, the reality of their situation settling in. They had become pawns in a game much larger than they had ever imagined. Candle Face’s voice softened, a dangerous sign. “But you have done well, bringing him to me. For that, you shall be rewarded. Go forth and find more like him, those who doubt, those who deny. Bring them to me, and you shall find yourselves in my favor.” As they nodded, a silent agreement sealed in fear and ambition, Candle Face turned back to me. “As for you, consider this a lesson in belief. Some truths lie beyond the grave, beyond the reach of mortal understanding. Your journey ends here, but theirs,” she glanced at my cousin and his accomplice, “is just beginning.” With those final words, the worst pain I have ever felt overtook my soul, and I felt the ties to the physical world dissolve. I now lay with many others like me under the floorboards. Now bound to Candle Face’s will, the two men left the house with a new purpose, leaving behind the darkness and the cries that echoed long after their departure. They had unwittingly entered a pact with a being as mysterious as the night itself, driven by the promise of power and the fear of Candle Face. Yet, their journey had taken a turn they could never have anticipated, trapping them in a web of evil far beyond their wildest nightmares. In the quiet that followed, the house above my body became a tomb, a testament to the thin layer between belief and disbelief. Candle Face, a guardian of that threshold, continued to lurk in the shadows, her presence a constant reminder of the power of the unseen forces that shape our destinies. As the story of my life concluded, the stories of my cousin and his friend were beginning to unfold under Candle Face’s watchful eye. Bound by their name and actions, they ventured into the darkness, tasked with trapping others into the same fate that killed me. But in their hearts lingered a seed of doubt, a silent question of whether they, too, might one day find themselves set in a trap of their own making, victims of the very disbelief that had led them to this path. My nocturnal visitor shared a sly smile, pushed himself from the bar, and walked back into the shadow from where he came while the two knife handles bounced slightly with each step. Before disappearing completely, he looked back at me with that same sly smile and said, “Good luck, Ray.” P ersonal Note to My Readers Lately, there’s been a surge in the number of firsts in my nocturnal visitor’s testimonies. This particular account was strikingly detailed about geographical locations, as the victim recounted his journey from Austin to Luling, then to Houston and San Antonio. He specifically mentioned roads like Highway 183 and Interstate Highways 10 and 45. Interestingly, the spirit referred to a “Salt Road” in Luling, a detail that proves puzzling since no such road exists according to Google Maps. There is, however, a “Salt Flat Road.” This discrepancy suggests a deliberate obscuring of the actual events and locations or a common issue with posthumous testimonies where details can blur from memory. The victim’s revelations about the setting of his demise are particularly alarming. He mentioned that Candle Face, the vengeful entity, declared the town and house “ancient sites of power”—a statement laden with threatening implications. Furthermore, he disclosed that his body lies with many others under the floorboards, hinting at a gruesome history of killings. This raises several urgent questions: What’s the nature of this sacred ground? Could this house be the site of multiple unsolved mysteries? What’s Candle Face’s connection to this town and house? The identity of the killers is another disturbing layer. According to the spirit, his cousin and his friend, who curiously share the same name, were responsible for his death. Intriguingly, the spirit noted Candle Face’s particular fondness for this name, suggesting a possible predestined or coded selection. This testimony not only adds a complex layer to our understanding of ghost stories but also challenges us to consider the intersections of memory, history, geography, and the supernatural. It invites us to investigate the relationship between Candle Face and the mysterious events on Salt Flat Road. As we gather and dissect these testimonies, let us remain vigilant in our pursuit of truth, however elusive it may appear amidst the shadows of the past. 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

April 17, 2024   I drove to Sugar Land, Texas, for a late conference and arrived much earlier than planned, expecting heavy traffic. With time to spare, I stopped at Schlotzsky’s for dinner. After my meal, with still plenty of time to kill, I settled back in my car and reached for my phone, planning to pass the time watching cute puppy videos on YouTube. Instead of a relaxing video session, I was startled when a young woman in her twenties suddenly opened the locked passenger door and climbed in. Noticing she was missing half her head, I realized this wasn’t a robbery; this was story time. Here’s her story: Living in Austin, a town full of myths and legends, I had always been a skeptic. Out of all of them, the story of Candle Face amused me the most. I considered it nothing more than a bedtime story for the gullible; a story spun to keep children from misbehaving. However, little did I know that my skepticism would soon be tested. It all began with my secret pen pal from San Francisco. We didn’t use Facebook or any other social media site to communicate; we preferred the more personal use of pen and paper. We had been exchanging letters for years, sharing stories about our lives, dreams, and occasional fears. But lately, something had shifted in her letters. They took on an unnerving tone, filled with references to ghosts, vampires, and the alike. One day, she wrote to me about the ritual to summon Bloody Mary, a story I had heard a hundred times in my youth. I shrugged it off, humored her, and even tried the ritual myself in front of my bathroom mirror. Naturally, nothing happened, and I chuckled at the superstitious nonsense. However, as the months passed, my pen pal’s letters dug deeper into the supernatural. She began recounting stories of sightings and experiences that she claimed were real. Her words painted a picture of a world where myths and legends held sway over reality, and she seemed to be spiraling out of control. One evening, as I sat by my desk, I received a letter from my pen pal. Her handwriting, usually neat and precise, now appeared hurried and trembling. She implored me to find information about Candle Face, the legendary ghost of Austin, and mail it to her. It was as if she believed that understanding the legend would provide answers to the mysteries that haunted her. Instead of immersing myself in the folklore, I decided to concoct my own stories of Candle Face, intending to send her a letter filled with fabricated details and spooky stories. It was all in good fun, I thought, a harmless attempt to ease her troubled mind. I penned my letter, full of myths and legends around Candle Face, each more frightening than the last. I embellished the details, painting her as a vengeful spirit with a thirst for the souls of skeptics. With my fabricated information, I placed the letter in the mailbox at the local post office. Two weeks had passed since I had received a letter from my pen pal. I began to worry that my letter was a mistake, that I may have gone too far. I walked to the post office to drop off another letter to my pen pal, confessing the stories about Candle Face were false. On my way home from the post office, my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of my pen pal and her descent into the paranormal world. As I wandered through the streets of my neighborhood, lost in my thoughts, I had a chance encounter with a boy from my old high school. We struck up a conversation that flowed effortlessly as if our souls had known each other for lifetimes, and hours passed in the blink of an eye as we talked about our dreams, our fears, and our shared love for the mysteries of the world. As the evening sun descended below the horizon, he offered to walk me home. It was a kind gesture, but my heart longed for a moment of solitude, a chance to reconnect with the familiar comfort of the woods that bordered my neighborhood. I assured him I would be fine and went to the open spot of the woods that had always been my sanctuary. Sitting on a familiar log, I let my thoughts drift to my pen pal. I intended to share the beautiful encounter I had just experienced, hoping it would distract her from the gloomy stories that seemed to consume her. I wanted to draw her attention back to the world around her, to remind her that there was beauty and wonder beyond the realm of myths and legends. Yet, on that evening, the woods felt different. They seemed alive, anticipating something I couldn’t comprehend. Faint voices floated through the air, words that raised the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. “Believe. Accept.” The words wrapped around me, their meaning eluding my understanding. Was it my imagination running wild? Suddenly, a warm gust of wind swept through the trees, and I turned around, my heart pounding in my chest. What I saw made my blood run cold. Standing before me was the legend I had ridiculed for so long – Candle Face. Her appearance was nightmarish, her face melting away like wax dripping from a candle. The stories had never done her justice. Fear gripped me, and I realized that she was here because of me because I had dismissed her existence as nothing more than a figment of my imagination. “Are you going to kill me?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Yes, of course,” Candle Face answered with a booming laugh. “Why?” I managed to ask despite my fear. Candle Face’s lips curled into a cruel smile, her voice rasping like dry leaves skittering over stone. “Because, little girl, you mocked me. You denied my existence; you used me for your jest and wrote lies to your pen pal. Your fabrications have summoned me here.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I thought it was harmless,” I said, panic rising in my voice. “Sorry? Your sorry means nothing. There are plenty of true horrors about me, yet you chose to invent stories. There is no need to fabricate. Each false story seeds disbelief and mockery, undermining the fear I feed upon.” Candle Face leaned closer, her face distorting as if the wax melted faster with her fury. “Your pen pal, oh, how she feared and respected me. Her fear was delicious, and so was her body. But you, with your letters, you tried to make light of the dark. Now, her soul is mine, twisted by the true stories I yelled at her at night, tales not diluted by your foolish jests.” My eyes widened with horror. “What did you do with her?” I managed to yell. “I told her the truth to combat your lies. Now, she entertains my shadows. She is bound to me forever – because of you.” “And you,” Candle Face hissed, her face now looming over me, “will join her soon enough. The two of you will scream in unison as the shadows have their way with you. Your secretions will moisten the soil of my underworld, a scent that will bring more shadows your way.” Candle Face moved even closer, her mouth touching my right ear, and whispered, “And your screams, oh, there will be many. The shadows will enjoy every one of them, feeding their appetite. They will turn your disbelief into the deepest despair.” Tears streamed down my face as I realized the depth of my mistake and the end of times was upon me. Candle Face pushed me off the log until I was lying on my back and legs up in the air, unable to resist her strength. With a slow and deliberate motion, Candle Face reached for a large rock nearby, its surface cold and unforgiving. She held it high above her head; laughter filled the air. The rock fell, and darkness descended. But not before feeling the shadows spreading my legs. They couldn’t wait for their turn. The lost soul whispered when she concluded her testimony, asking if she could stay longer. She confided that in my presence, the shadows couldn’t touch her. I remained silent, understanding all too well that any response might only serve to intensify her suffering, as Candle Face would surely punish her further. I hoped she understood my silence. She opened the car door with a heavy heart and slowly walked towards the shadows thrown by the restaurant’s dumpsters and disappeared. I swear I heard the shadows scream in delight when she disappeared. Personal Note to My Readers The young woman who joined me in my car, missing half her head, bore the marks of a tragic death. Her appearance startled me and deeply moved me, compelling me to reach out to you. Her spirit, caught between worlds, tells a story not of serenity but of haunting despair, a soul unable to find the peace it desperately seeks. This emotional encounter has left a lasting impression on me, and I’m asking for your help. As of today, we have managed to assist only four of the twenty-six lost souls. Like the young woman, these spirits need our collective efforts to find the peace that escapes them. Could we, as a community of readers and supernatural enthusiasts, come together to help this lost soul and others like her find the peace they need to leave the shadows that torment them? Through our collective thoughts, attention, and even further investigation into these mysteries, I hope we can help guide them to the rest they deserve. Before I leave, I must mention that the pen pal appears to be Candle Face’s first victim outside of Central Texas, as far as I know. Yet, it’s uncertain when this incident occurred, given that the victims don’t necessarily reach out to me in the order Candle Face targeted them. Could Candle Face be expanding her territory? This idea scares 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

April 25, 2024   It’s been six days since my last nocturnal visitor. These encounters have taken me on a rollercoaster of emotions, from dread to anticipation and back to fear. Thankfully, I had a short break. But that ended abruptly this morning. As I settled on the couch, ready for sleep, I noticed the shadow in the far corner of the living room start to expand. “Here we go,” I thought, my heart pounding in my chest. I took a deep breath, preparing for the spirit’s approach. The figure, a young man in his early to mid-twenties draped in a sheet, surveyed me before moving closer. My steady, silent gaze met his eyes, signaling him to begin. And so, he shared his story: I left my apartment in San Marcos, heading to my parents’ place near Houston. After entering their address into my GPS, I set off late in the evening, hoping to avoid the Christmas season traffic. My journey took me along Highway 80. Near the small town of Stairtown, I noticed a man in a construction vest and hard hat on the side of the road. He held a large white sign above his head, which read, “CONTINUE STRAIGHT,” accompanied by a black arrow pointing forward. He waved as I drove past, seeming like a construction worker directing traffic despite no apparent construction. A few minutes later, I encountered a woman wearing a construction vest and hard hat, displaying a sign that read, “KEEP GOING, YOU’RE ALMOST THERE.” She waved, and I honked my horn in response. By then, my GPS signal had dropped, forcing me to rely on my memory, which was shaky since it was only my third time driving this route. Where Highway 80 and Highway 183 intersect, another woman held a sign with an arrow pointing straight ahead. I hesitated, thinking I needed to turn right, but she pointed directly at me and instructed me to continue straight. As I complied, she shouted, “I love you!” prompting me to laugh and honk in return. At an intersection, a group stood, each holding a sign. One sign caught my attention; it read, “BEYOND THIS PATH LIES THE UNKNOWN. TRUST YOUR HEART TO LEAD YOU HOME.” It felt like a prank by my college friends, who knew I’d be passing through. Feeling more relaxed and entertained by the apparent joke, I sped up. Moments later, I spotted three friends from school by the roadside, waving signs that read, “YOU MADE IT,” “WELCOME HOME,” and “I LOVE YOU.” As they suddenly jumped in front of my car, I swerved to avoid hitting them, skidding to a halt on the dirt road. I leaped out, greeted by the glare of my car’s headlights. “What are ya’ll doing here?” Laughter was my only response from my friends. They rushed to me, grabbed my arms, and began directing me to step across some barbed wire fencing. “Where’re we going?” I asked, a mix of excitement and apprehension in my voice. “We’re going to a party, and you’re the guest of honor,” they replied, their voices now hollow. Feeling a growing sense of unease, I hesitated. “Wait, I need to know where we’re going before I go any further,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “Don’t be a baby; we love you,” they chuckled, their tones now unmistakably menacing. At that moment, my instincts screamed that something was deeply wrong. I took a step back towards the barbed wire fence. “I think I should head back to my car,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. In an instant, the familiar features of my three college friends contorted, their bodies stretching and twisting. Their once recognizable forms dissipated into tall, dark, swirling shadows that hovered just above the ground. The air around us grew hot and heavy, pressing against my skin. One of the shadows moved closer, its form becoming more defined yet no less terrifying. It appeared almost human but elongated and distorted, like a reflection in a funhouse mirror. The voice that emerged from it was unexpectedly smooth, chillingly serene against its ghastly appearance. “This isn’t a request,” it said. Slowly, it tilted its head towards an old structure hidden deep in the thick brush, barely visible. The shadows stripped me of my clothes and dragged me to this house. The house seemed to sag under the weight of countless years, its windows dark and vacant. “Come,” the shadow urged. “She is waiting for you.” The shadows pushed me forward against my will. “No, I... I need to go,” I responded, but the shadows didn’t heed my protests. They, instead, ushered me through the door. Once inside, the old wood under my feet creaked like bones cracking with every step. The air was hot and heavy; each breath I took felt heavier than the last, filled with the smell of decay and old earth. The shadows were now silhouetted against dozens of candles along the room’s perimeter and center. The flames guided me to the center of an old, dusty room. Suddenly, the space around me began to glitter, and from the shadows, Candle Face emerged. She wasn’t a young girl from the stories I have heard, but a tall and slender woman, her wax-like face illuminated softly by the candlelight. The hollow eye sockets, dark and deep, seemed to look right into my soul. Candle Face said to me with a wrinkled brow, “I am irate,” she began, her voice echoing around the room, “that you refuse to believe in me. Despite my many attempts and all I have done for you, your doubt has worn my patience thin.” The air grew hotter with each word, the shadows around us growing more intense. I tried to speak, apologize, and plead, but fear tightened around my throat, squeezing the words back down. “You will not ignore me any longer,” Candle Face declared. With a wave of her hand, the floorboards beneath me gave way and landed softly but firmly just below the house. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed I wasn’t alone. Dozens of others lay under the floorboards, their eyes hollow yet seemingly looking right at me. In a haunting chorus, they sang, “I love you,” over and over again. As I lay there, trapped beneath the house’s floorboards, Candle Face had more to say. She wasn’t done with me yet, she said in a faint yet unmistakable voice, “One day, someone will come looking for you, someone who loves you,” Candle Face said, her voice fading into the enveloping shadows, laughing as her voice faded. The silence that followed was deafening and thick with the scent of old earth. I felt the presence of the other spirits around me, each trapped in their own nightmare, their stories untold and forgotten, their fates sealed like mine. “It is not merely to torment you that I bind you here,” Candle Face’s voice emerged again. “There is a way out of this darkness, a puzzle that, if solved, will break the chains that tether you to this place.” A flicker of light appeared above me as if the mere mention of escape gave me hope. “Listen well,” she continued, “for this riddle is your only key to salvation. The only one who truly understands the depths of this house’s power can unravel its meaning and grant you release.” The air grew even hotter, and I braced myself as she delivered the riddle. The silence returned but now charged with the faintest chance of possibility—that someone could come, solve the riddle, and free me from Candle Face’s hell. Who’s this person who will come looking for me? The answer remained trapped within the walls of the haunted house, just as I remained trapped under its creaking boards. The spirit paused at the threshold of the shadowy portal, glancing over its shoulder. It offered me a weary smile before turning to leave. “Wait,” I called out, louder than I intended. The sharpness of my own voice startled both of us. The spirit whirled around, eyes wide with surprise—and perhaps fear. I realized then that I had made a grave mistake. Candle Face had explicitly warned me against conversing with the lost souls. Yet, here I was, having already crossed that line. Accepting my error, I decided to seize the moment. “What’s the riddle? What did Candle Face tell you? If you expect my help, you must help me. What’s the riddle?” I demanded. The spirit cast a wary look back into the shadows, then back at me, a silent acknowledgment that it had nothing to lose. “She posed this riddle: ‘Across the cemetery’s silent stones, I love you pierces through the bones. Who hears this declaration low, where none but departed souls may go?’” With those words, he turned back, stepping hesitantly towards the portal. He paused, seemingly torn, and a calm but firm voice from within the shadows called out, “Come.” With a nod, he disappeared into the darkness. Personal Note to My Readers I scribbled the riddle onto a sheet of paper and hurried to my computer to document the rest of his testimony. What could this riddle mean? “Across the cemetery’s silent stones, ‘I love you’ pierces through the bones. Who hears this declaration low, where none but departed souls may go?” The recurring theme of “I love you” threads through everything—from the road signs and the “construction workers” to the shadows, the spirits under the floorboards, and now this riddle. What does “I love you” mean relating to this lost soul? Frustrated by a lack of answers from an online search, I pondered reaching out to the paranormal community. However, they often seemed more preoccupied with chasing dusk particles on camera lenses than engaging with genuine paranormal cases. Perhaps I’ll go on a trip to see it for myself. It’s just less than two hours away. After all, with 30 years of intelligence and investigations under my belt, it was time to rely on myself to find the answers. 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

April 30, 2024   Retirement life offers its share of surprises. Some days, I find myself occupied with household chores, while on other days, I’m deep into endless scrolling on Facebook and YouTube. Today was one of those latter days. I must have spent 12 hours lounging on my couch in my boxers, watching video after video. The soft glow of the screen illuminated the room, casting shadows that danced across the pale walls. Around 4:00 a.m., the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. Assuming it was my son, I initially didn’t look up. But then, the sound of a woman clearing her throat made me pause—it seemed she wanted to be noticed. Glancing up, I saw a woman in her early thirties, a man’s tie knotted tightly around her neck. Her eyes, filled with a mixture of desperation and determination, instantly grabbed my attention. I immediately wondered if this spirit would attempt to attack me like others have in the past. Recognizing the signs of a story waiting to be told, I sat up and pulled out my notebook filled with paranormal investigation forms, ready to document her testimony. She took this as her signal to start and narrated her story in a scratchy, high-pitched voice. Repetitive conversations and predictable routines had come to define our lives. Each day was a mirror image of the one before, marked by the same words exchanged without conviction and passionless kisses that barely registered. We were stuck in the well-worn groove of our marriage, circling the same patterns with unwavering consistency. “Planning for Christmas shopping?” my husband asked, his voice devoid of genuine interest as we sat in the dimly lit restaurant, the clatter of dishes and murmurs of nearby conversations serving as the backdrop to our well-rehearsed dialogue. I dipped my fingers into my purse, retrieving my lipstick with a practiced motion. Without making eye contact, I replied, “Trying to beat the holiday rush.” Our synchronized movements continued as we both rose from our seats, “Love you,” he said, a phrase that had once carried the weight of devotion but now felt as empty as the restaurant on a Tuesday night. With a heavy heart, I replied, “Love you too,” and we exited the restaurant, his hand slipping into mine out of habit. The routine continued as I drove him back to work, our conversation drifting into silence, punctuated only by the sound of traffic. Once he closed the car door behind him, I sped away, driven by an urgency that only I could comprehend. The destination was familiar: a nondescript apartment in North Austin. I had come to find solace and excitement in the arms of my boyfriend, a man who represented a stark contrast to my husband. Our relationship was built on philosophical debates, shared adventures, and a passion that had been missing from my marriage for far too long. These clandestine encounters had become my lifeline, a way to escape the monotony of my daily existence. The door to the apartment swung open, and the familiar scent of his musky cologne mixed with the faint smell of old books greeted me. “Finally,” he said, his voice deep and filled with anticipation. In his embrace, I found refuge from the mundanity of my marriage. My boyfriend’s allure was his ability to awaken something dormant within me, to breathe life into the hollow spaces of my heart. These stolen moments were our escape, a secret world where passion and desire reigned supreme. But on this particular night, as I nestled into the warmth of his arms, something felt different. His eyes, usually filled with longing, were now brimming with tears. “You shouldn’t have ridiculed her,” he whispered in my ear, his voice shaky and regretful. A sudden gust of wind made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and the dimly lit room seemed to come alive with dancing shadows. Among them, I saw a haunting silhouette, its eyes empty of life and its mouth twisted into a grotesque grin. Panic seized me, and I pulled away from my boyfriend, searching for an explanation. He began to chant in a language I couldn’t understand. His words synchronized with the dance of the shadows. “Why? I trusted you,” I pleaded in a choked voice, my heart pounding with fear. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he spoke tremblingly. “She requires devotion, of which you’re empty. And I must indulge her.” The atmosphere grew heavy with wicked energy, and laughter echoed ominously around the room. Weeks passed, and my absence remained unexplained. Rumors circulated about my mysterious disappearance filled the air. My husband and boyfriend found themselves face to face in a secluded bar on the outskirts of Austin. Taking a gulp from his drink, my boyfriend broke the silence. “I didn’t wish for this,” he admitted, his eyes haunted by the unfolding events. My husband’s reply was even more disturbing, his voice lacking remorse. “It was either her or us.” “Faith holds strength,” mused my boyfriend, his gaze fixed on the swirling patterns in his glass, “but doubt can be fatal.” The lost soul tugged at the tight necktie around her neck, attempting to loosen it, but it only tightened further. As she attempted to adjust the tie, she caught my gaze with a knowing look, her eyes weary yet intense. She smiled at me and offered a piece of advice: “Don’t be discouraged about helping the lost souls,” she began, her voice soft yet clear in the room’s stillness. “We’re not all bad. If you’re an asshole in life, you’re an asshole in death too.” She paused, likely contemplating what she had observed from Candle Face’s hell, then continued, “But it’s not just the bad; the good carry on too. People who spend their lives spreading kindness and love don’t lose that when they pass. They remain kind, gentle spirits, seeking to guide and comfort the living. In death, as in life, our spirits mirror who we really were.” Her words hung in the air, a simple truth that suddenly made the world of spirits seem less mysterious and more like a continuation of what we already know. She gestured towards the shadowy portal that shimmered in the corner of the room—a gateway between her world and mine. “Just as misery loves company, joy seeks to spread happiness. Remember, every soul has a story, and each reflects its life. So when you meet one of us, think not just of what you see but of what we were.” 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