March 27, 2024
I was lounging on the couch, lost in thought about the increasing visits from the lost souls. Interestingly, none had shown any hostility toward me of late. Perhaps it was a mere coincidence. While preparing my makeshift bed on the couch, the side door swung open, ushering in an intense wave of body odor. A man, seemingly in his middle years and mirroring my own age, approached. His gaze, however, was fixated on the fresh brownies my wife had prepared just a few hours earlier. Offering some, I was taken aback not only by my own ease of communication but even more so when he responded, “I appreciate the offer, but partaking in the pleasures of the living isn’t something I can do without consequences.” His refusal was met with my encouraging smile, “Well, if you reconsider, they’re there for the taking.” We then proceeded to the living room, where, for the first time, one of my nocturnal visitors chose to sit. Curiously, I inquired, “What brings you here tonight?” This is what he told me:
I used to stand on a corner downtown, holding my tattered sign, just another face in the homeless crowd. My days were a loop of survival: beg for change, buy a drink, numb the pain, and start all over again. It wasn’t much of a life, but it was all I had.
One day, this guy came up to me, holding a flyer. His eyes had this weird intensity, like he was trying to sell me something. The flyer had a drawing of a little girl. She looked kind of sad, almost forgotten, like she was waiting for someone to notice her. She looked like she was from Mexico or Central America. He said she could save people like me and give me a way out of this hell.
I didn’t take him seriously. I mean, what good is a ‘savior’ when your stomach’s empty, and the cold cuts through your bones? I tossed the flyer back at him and muttered, “I need food, not another savior.”
That night, I crawled under the I-35 overpass, my usual spot to crash. My mind wandered back to that guy and his talk about this little girl. Was it hope? Or just desperation?
The next morning, an older guy—one of the regulars on the street—came up to me. He had this haunted look in his eyes, like he’d seen something he couldn’t unsee. He warned me to stay far away from that little girl because she’s actually Candle Face, said nothing good came from crossing paths with her. But the more he talked, the more curious I got.
Over the next few weeks, I couldn’t get her out of my head. At first, I blamed the booze. The voices I started hearing? Must’ve been another side effect of drinking too much. But they didn’t go away—not when I was sober, not when I was drunk. They said things, secrets, promises… and they made my daily routine unbearable.
Eventually, I linked up with some other folks who’d heard of Candle Face. We started swapping stories, piecing together what we could. We thought we were onto something, but it was like chasing shadows. No matter how hard we tried, the truth stayed just out of reach.
Then came the betrayal.
The guy who’d handed me the flyer? Turns out he was working for her the whole time. He wasn’t trying to save us—he was feeding us to Candle Face. One by one, my friends fell under her spell. The yelling in my head even grew louder, driving me to the edge.
I thought I could handle it, but the pressure was too much. One night, I drank more than I ever had before, hoping to escape it all. I thought I was taking control, but that’s when she came to me. Candle Face herself.
She stepped out from behind a pillar, her face glowing faintly, like melting wax with two flickering flames where her eyes should’ve been. Her voice was cold and calm. “Do you still not believe?” she asked.
I laughed bitterly. “You’re just in my head,” I said. “A drunk’s nightmare.”
She shook her head. “No,” she said, “I’ve been waiting for you to give up. Now, you are mine.”
In the end, I gave up. I let her take me, my spirit too tired to resist anymore.
Now, my old street corner belongs to someone else, another lost soul who doesn’t realize what’s coming. Candle Face’s influence stretches farther every day, swallowing people like me. The world keeps moving, oblivious to what’s really happening, while the homeless community—the forgotten ones—falls deeper under her grip.
And me? I’m just another name on her list, another warning that no one will hear.
He finished telling his story, then walked over to the brownies, their aroma clearly calling to him. I watched in silence as he lingered there—his whole demeanor radiating a quiet longing. Finally, he turned toward me, looking torn between desire and resignation. “I’d give anything to taste the life I once knew,” he said softly, “but sometimes it’s better to leave certain wants unfulfilled.” With that, he left the house. By the time his foot reached the sidewalk, his form slowly faded into the night until there was nothing left but the echo of a tired sigh.
Personal Note to My Readers
One detail from the spirit’s story stood out to me—the flyer he mentioned, with the drawing of a little girl. He said she looked sad, almost forgotten, like she was waiting for someone to notice her. He thought she might have been from Mexico or Central America.
It makes me wonder who she was. Was she just a figure meant to draw people in, or is there something more to her? Spirits often leave pieces of themselves behind in the stories they tell. Maybe this was one of those pieces.
I don’t know what it means yet, but I’ll keep it in mind as these visits continue.
Key To Understanding
Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One]
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