May 20, 2024
I finally put down my phone to prepare for another night of sleep on the couch. I walked to the light switch and turned it off. A much darker shadow appeared in the room’s corner when darkness hit. I knew what was next, so I sat on the couch and waited. A short male wearing tattered clothing but a newer hoodie stepped out of the portal and approached me. I could smell his body odor when he became visible. We made eye contact, both smiled, and he sat down beside me. He said good evening, then corrected himself with “Good mornin’,” with a slight laugh. He seemed so friendly I wanted to chat, but I knew better. After a short pause, he began his story:
I’ve heard folks say that a person’s home is their sanctuary. Well, under the Ben White overpass, among the discarded and the lost, South Austin doesn’t offer much sanctity. It’s been a rough patch of existence, me and the other five—our own kind of brotherhood. We’re the unseen, the unheard, the unspoken. Our bond was born of survival, a mutual necessity to stick together. But stronger than our brotherhood was the fear that bound us—a fear of something much worse than hunger, cold, or violence: Candle Face.
The stories of Candle Face were woven into every conversation around the fire pit. She was the breath behind every misfortune, the force driving those who doubted her existence toward madness, the kind that lives in the bottom of bottles and at the tips of needles.
“Ever wonder why Kevin never came back?” Jim muttered one night, his eyes haunted. “He doubted. Candle Face got him.”
The group would nod along. They spoke of Candle Face’s torment—a relentless mental barrage that shattered the mind. “We have to spread the word,” they’d say. “We have to save the souls of the homeless.”
I’d nod too, but my heart was never in it. To me, Candle Face was just a story, a manifestation of our collective misery. I refused to believe in her supernatural powers. I needed to believe there was a rational explanation for everything—for our fears, for our horrors.
Then, she came.
One night, a silhouette appeared by the fire, her eyes glowing like embers. The flames seemed to shrink in her presence, trembling as if they too feared her.
“One of you has betrayed me,” Candle Face’s voice was barely audible. Her gaze landed on me. I was the disbeliever, the one who pretended to go along while secretly doubting her.
She moved closer, and I felt the weight of her gaze strip away my pretense. My disbelief was laid bare. Yet, she didn’t kill me. Instead, she turned to the others.
“This one shall be your warning,” she said before vanishing into the burning fire pit.
My brothers, the ones I’d shared every hardship with, now looked at me differently. There was no camaraderie in their eyes anymore. Only fear and reverence. They believed I’d been marked, spared for a purpose.
Days passed, and the divide between us grew. They treated me like I was cursed, alive yet tainted. Nights were worse. Shadows watched me from every corner, and the cold mocked our feeble fire. The others’ belief in Candle Face deepened, and I became an outsider among them.
Finally, the reckoning came.
We gathered around the fire pit under the overpass. The flames danced wildly, their light casting jagged shadows on the concrete walls. This time, their eyes weren’t filled with sorrow or fear for me. They were resolute. Hardened.
Candle Face appeared again, her flaming eyes fixed on us. She didn’t speak, but her silence was louder than any words. The others rose, one by one. Their movements were slow but deliberate, their expressions unyielding. I knew what was coming.
They came at me with fists raised, not in anger but in something far worse: belief. Every strike landed with purpose, every blow a sermon in honor of Candle Face. Their grunts and gasps mixed with the crackling fire in a grotesque symphony.
Pain exploded across my body, and I fell to the ground. They didn’t stop. Each hit felt like a punishment not just for my disbelief but for everything they had endured. Their anger, their misery, their need to believe—it all came crashing down on me.
As my breath slowed and my vision dimmed, I saw her. Candle Face stood over us, watching silently. Her eyes burned brighter, and for a moment, I thought I heard her voice.
“Believe,” she said, the word resonating like a commandment.
And then everything went blank.
Personal Note to My Readers
For the first time in seven months of documenting the testimonies of the lost souls, names emerged—an unexpected yet monumental breakthrough. This revelation marks a significant milestone in my work. Until now, these encounters were shrouded in anonymity, their stories devoid of personal identifiers. Introducing the names Kevin and Jim brings a new kind of life into these accounts. Jim was one of the victim’s killers. It suggests a shift, a willingness—or perhaps a desperate need—of these spirits to be known and remembered.
As I write this journal entry, I want you to grasp the weight of this moment. Kevin and Jim’s names signify the beginning of a new chapter, where the lost souls may start to share more than just their ghostly presence. Names bring with them histories, connections, and identities. With these first names, I anticipate a cascade of other names and details to follow. This may become the norm in an era where the spirits’ stories are no longer completely obscure. We stand on the brink of uncovering more intricate stories, with names serving as keys to unlocking the full spectrum of their experiences. The air around me feels excited as if the very fabric of the paranormal world is aligning to reveal its secrets in ways it never has before.
Key To Understanding
Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One]
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