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  • Writer's pictureArthur Mills

Candle Face Victim #24: Shadows of the Bloodstained House

Candle Face Victim #24: Shadows of the Bloodstained House

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.”

Personal 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 article, 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 book provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this article might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this article’s content and implications.

To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door, please visit Amazon



Antique typewriter, a portal to the chilling narratives within Candle Face Chronicles: The Journal. Immerse yourself in user accounts, victim stories, and paranormal clues. Join the investigation, unravel mysteries, and contribute to the collective knowledge in this gripping journey into the supernatural.

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