April 15, 2024
After spending far too long scrolling through Facebook and YouTube videos on my phone, I finally put it down and prepared to sleep on the couch as usual. I walked over to turn out the light; when the room went dark, the brief flicker of the switch revealed a shadowy figure standing there. I froze, locking eyes on that vague silhouette, sensing it was waiting for me to react.
Perhaps noticing my hesitation, the figure moved in closer and leaned against my bar. I couldn’t make out many details in the dimness, but I saw two knives piercing his body—one through his chest and another at his neck. He looked in my direction and spoke in a wet, gurgling voice, thick with blood: “Looks like I’ve overstayed my welcome in the living world, don’t you think?”
I didn’t respond, aware that any words might draw him further into Candle Face’s lair. Unperturbed, he stayed where he was, resting against the bar, those knives catching the faint light. Then, in that muted space between us, he began to tell me how he died.
I used to think I had a decent sense of who I could trust, but that morning proved how wrong I was. It started before sunrise when my cousin and his friend pitched me a plan: drive to Houston, pick up a load of weapons, and sell them back in Austin. “Easy money,” my cousin said, like it was nothing.
We left Austin that afternoon, taking Highway 183. When we got to Luling, my cousin told me we had to make a stop to grab a “box of gats.” We veered off onto Salt Road, driving for a few minutes until we pulled up to a nondescript house.
Something about the place felt wrong. As soon as we stepped inside, I knew I shouldn’t have come.
The betrayal came quick.
I didn’t even see it coming. My cousin was the first to strike, driving a knife into my ribs and then into my chest. His friend followed with a blade to my neck. In those final moments, I saw their faces—grim, determined, and completely devoid of regret.
They buried me beneath that cursed house. From beneath the floorboards, I watched them carry out the rest of their plan. They drove to Houston, loaded up the weapons, and made a stop north on Interstate 45 at some apartment to grab more. Then they headed to San Antonio along I-10, tossing my belongings somewhere to throw off any investigation. Finally, they came back to Austin, acting like nothing had happened.
But the house—where they killed me—had its own secrets.
It wasn’t long before Candle Face summoned them back. I watched as they returned, standing in the haunted gloom above my body. She was waiting for them.
Her voice, low and mocking, filled the house. “So, you thought you could decide his fate without consulting me?” she said, her laughter ringing through the creepy house.
My cousin, trying to act tough, replied, “We did what we thought was necessary. He wouldn’t have believed in you anyway.”
Candle Face’s laughter deepened. “Belief,” she mused, “such a fragile thing, yet it holds so much power. And you,” she turned her attention to me, though I was already dead, “you doubted my existence.”
I found my voice then. “I never believed in the paranormal,” I said. “I believed in what I could see and touch.”
Her smile twisted. “And yet, here you are,” she said, “touched by the very entity you denied.”
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.
She turned back to my cousin and his friend. “You share a name I know all too well,” she said. “It’s no coincidence. It’s a marker, a sign of potential I seek in my servants.”
The two exchanged nervous glances, realizing they were in far deeper than they’d thought.
Candle Face’s tone softened, dangerously. “You’ve done well, bringing him to me,” she said. “For that, you will be rewarded. Go forth and find more like him—those who doubt, those who deny. Bring them to me, and you will remain in my favor.”
They nodded, fear and ambition sealing their silent agreement.
Then she turned back to me. “As for you,” she said, “Your journey ends here, but theirs is just beginning.”
Pain unlike anything I’d ever felt tore through me. I was no longer just a ghost—I was bound to the house, one of many souls trapped beneath its cursed floorboards.
And my cousin and his friend? They left with a new purpose, tasked with feeding others to Candle Face. They thought they were in control, but they’d become pawns in her game.
Now, the house above me stands as a tomb—a reminder of what happens when disbelief meets something far beyond comprehension. My cousin and his friend might think they’ve escaped, but I can’t shake the feeling that their time will come. Candle Face doesn’t let anyone walk away unscathed.
He gave me a sly grin, pushed off from the bar, and stepped back into the corner. The knife handles in his chest and neck bouncing with each step. Just before vanishing completely, he shot me that same sneering smile and said, “Good luck, Ray.”
Personal Note to My Readers
The accounts I’ve been hearing lately are unlike anything I’ve documented before. This visitor’s story was unusually precise about where he traveled—Austin to Luling, then Houston and San Antonio—specifically citing Highway 183 and Interstates 10 and 45. Curiously, he mentioned a “Salt Road” in Luling. Based on a quick search, there’s no such road, though a “Salt Flat Road” does exist. Perhaps it’s a matter of fading memories in the afterlife or a deliberate effort to distort the truth.
What’s most disturbing is the notion that Candle Face apparently declared the town and house an “ancient site of power” and that this house contains multiple victims beneath its floorboards. If true, it raises serious questions, which, of course I couldn’t ask the lost soul:
What is the nature of this so-called “sacred ground”?
Is there a string of unsolved deaths linked to this location?
How exactly does Candle Face fit into this brutal legacy?
The killers—a cousin and a friend—supposedly share the same name, a detail Candle Face appears to find appealing. Whether that’s just a coincidence or some deeper pattern remains to be seen.
This testimony forces us to confront the murky intersections of memory, history, geography, and the supernatural. It hints at secret networks of tragedy—some known, some obscured, and some erased by time. As these clues emerge, let’s stay focused on our search for answers. Every revelation, no matter how perplexing, could help us solve this case and locate this house on “Salt Flat Road.”
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Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One]
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