Candle Face Victim #25 and #26: Ghostly Correspondence

April 17, 2024

I arrived in Sugar Land, Texas, for a conference late in the evening, getting there much earlier than I’d expected—traffic wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d feared. With time to spare, I decided to grab a quick meal at Schlotzsky’s. After finishing, I still had an hour or more to kill, so I settled back in my car, planning to watch some cute puppy videos on YouTube to pass the time.

That’s when it happened.

While I was scrolling through my feed, the locked passenger door abruptly swung open. A young woman in her twenties got into my car without hesitation. My first jolt was fear—thinking it might be a robbery—until I noticed she was missing half of her head. In an instant, I realized what this was. No robber, no stranger in need; this was another visitor with a story to share.

She didn’t look frightened or aggressive. She just looked at me with those weary eyes—eyes that had seen something I could barely fathom. Once again, I found myself at the intersection of two worlds: mine and hers. She began to speak, and I sat quietly, bracing myself for whatever haunting account she was about to reveal.

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 and fears.

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 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.” 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, made fun of me. Now, her soul is mine, twisted by the true stories I yelled at her at night, stories 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.”

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. She held it high above my head; laughter filled the air. The rock fell, and death descended. But not before feeling the shadows spreading my legs. They couldn’t wait for their turn.

She spoke so softly at the end of her testimony, asking if she could linger a bit longer. She confessed that, when she was with me, the shadows couldn’t harm her. I didn’t speak—knowing all too well that any response might make her a target for Candle Face’s wrath. I can only hope she understood my silence. She opened the car door, her steps heavy with regret, and walked toward the dark silhouettes by the restaurant’s dumpsters and vanishing. I could hear the shadows shriek with twisted glee as she disappeared.

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Personal Note to My Readers

I’m reaching out for your help. So far, we’ve only managed to assist four of the twenty-six lost souls who’ve reached out to me. Like this young woman—and her “pen pal,” as she called her—many are stuck in a nightmare far beyond my power to untie alone. I’m asking if our community of readers and paranormal enthusiasts can unite to bring peace to these souls. Through shared analysis, focused thought, or even direct action into these lost souls, perhaps we can help guide them away from Candle Face’s lair and into the rest they so desperately need.

One final note: this mention of a “pen pal” appears to mark the first time Candle Face has targeted someone outside Central Texas, at least from what I’ve gathered. But the timeline remains uncertain—the spirits don’t come to me in the same order Candle Face encounters them. The idea that Candle Face might be expanding her territory unnerves me more than anything. Stay vigilant, and please share any knowledge or experiences that might help us stand against Candle Face.

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Key To Understanding

Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One]

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