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  • Writer's pictureArthur Mills

Candle Face’s Hell: The Lair of Eternal Torment

Candle Face’s Hell: The Lair of Eternal Torment

March 28, 2024

As dusk gave way to darkness, I lit a candle, its candlelight casting long, dancing shadows across the room. I settled into the warm embrace of my massage chair to think about who my next nocturnal visitor would be and what I would ask them with my new ability to communicate directly with them. I closed my eyes. Little did I know my intentions would summon a horror far beyond any I had ever encountered.

The air grew hot, the heat seeped into my bones, and the candle flames twisted into grotesque shapes. Then, she made her presence known, not as a lost soul seeking solace but as Candle Face herself. Her appearance was a nightmare made manifest, her face melting before me and flames flickering in the hollows where eyes should be. She had entered my sanctuary, a place I foolishly thought safe from such evil.

Without uttering a word, she extended a sizzling hand, the waxen skin stretching into an impossible length, trapping me in a crushing and fire-like grip. In an instant, we were no longer in my living room but transported to a world of unimaginable terror — her lair, her hell, again for the second time.

Candle Face’s anger was profound, a storm of rage and betrayal. She accused me of transgressing the sacred divide between the living and the dead. The lost soul, Victim # 22, who had spoken to me the previous night, had violated a forbidden covenant, and Candle Face held me responsible. She intended to show me the actual consequence of my actions, to reveal the damage I had wrought under the guise of aid.

Her lair was a crypt of despair, an endless expanse of darkness punctuated by the anguished wails of her victims. The air was thick with the stench of decay. Candle Face led me through this nightmare, our path illuminated by the ghostly light from her form.

With each step, the horrors unfolded in a more terrifying manner than I could have ever imagined. Spirits, their ghostly forms shimmering with a supernatural light, were trapped in torturous devices that seemed to defy the laws of physics and mercy alike. Their bodies were twisted and stretched, contorted in unnatural angles that spoke of unspeakable agony. The air was filled with the sound of their screams, a symphony that pierced my soul and threatened to shatter my mind. These devices, powered by dark shadows, mainly in human form, seemed to feed on the suffering they inflicted, growing ever more grotesque and elaborate with each cry of pain.

In this grisly gallery of torment, some of the lost souls were pursued by shadows that embodied their deepest fears. These shadows were relentless, morphing into ever more horrifying forms - giant spiders with eyes that glowed with malice, ghostly figures with faces that twisted into grotesque parodies of loved ones, and all manner of beasts and monsters that preyed on the psyche of the trapped spirits. These haunted souls ran on paths that twisted and turned, leading nowhere but back into the clutches of their fears, an endless chase that offered no break, no hope of escape.

In another corner of Candle Face’s nightmarish hell, the air thrummed with the intense despair of spirits trapped in a horrifying display of unending silence. Their mouths were sewn shut with threads, and their screams stifled as they were forced to witness the replay of their most traumatic life moments on a loop, like a wicked film that knew no end. Shadowy figures yelled cruel truths and lies into their ears, stories of how their lovers had moved on, forcing them to watch mental scenes of the husbands and wives lying with their new lovers and how the world of the living had forgotten their memories. This psychological torture was a relentless assault on their sanity, a punishment that left them yearning for a voice to scream, to beg for mercy that would never come.

Further into the depths, a grotesque scene unfolded where spirits were encased in mirrors that reflected not their true forms but monstrous versions of themselves instilled with all the guilt, shame, and regret they had carried in life. These mirrors didn’t simply reflect; they amplified and distorted, turning minor misdeeds into unforgivable sins and small insecurities into monstrous self-loathings. The lost souls were forced to confront these twisted reflections continually, their efforts to look away futile, as the mirrors moved to always be in their line of sight. Here, in this chamber of distorted reflections, the boundary between reality and nightmare blurred, leaving the souls trapped in a vortex of self-inflicted psychological torment, a maze with no exit and mirrors as walls, each reflection a reminder of their perceived monstrosity.

Within the shadowed depths of Candle Face’s hell, I encountered torments that defied all sense of humanity, each scene a grotesque testament to the perverse cruelty that ruled this hellish landscape. Among these, my eyes were drawn to the dreadful fate of Victim # 10, a woman who had once mockingly rejected the story of Candle Face with a rebellious display of her devil tattoo. Now trapped, she was surrounded by menacing shadows that mirrored the faces of her former companions, their jeers echoing endlessly as they flaunted marks similar to her tattoo, each ablaze with a fire that seemed to feast upon her spirit. This ironic punishment, her former mockery turned into a chain of everlasting torment, unfolded before me, vividly illustrating Candle Face’s vindictive justice.

Not far from this ghoulish show, I witnessed the tragic entanglement of Victim # 18 and Victim # 19, forever replaying their last earthly encounter. The woman, who had loved to run, was now trapped in a perpetual sprint, her Walkman emitting a symphony of despair. At the same time, her assailant, the cause of her doom, was doomed to follow her endlessly, horror etched into his features as he came to grips with the grim reality of their intertwined fates and hands. Shadowy entities chased them, embodying the man’s guilt, remorse, and appearance among the monstrous figures that pursued them. This endless chase was a dark mirror of their final moments in life, now a punishment of infinite despair.

Witnessing these horrors firsthand, a sense of profound despair overwhelmed me. The realization that these souls were bound to relive their darkest moments for eternity, not as a lesson but as Candle Face’s cruel entertainment, weighed heavily upon my spirit. The lair wasn’t just a prison of physical torment but a crucible of psychological warfare, stripping away any remnants of hope. The knowledge that my attempts to connect with these lost souls had inadvertently delivered them into this nightmare was a burden of guilt and sorrow that threatened to consume me. The terror of their eternal punishment, a direct consequence of my meddling, was a harrowing revelation that shook the foundation of my resolve.

Elsewhere, other spirits were caught in a cycle of despair so profound it seemed to warp the very fabric of the afterlife. They were forced to relive their final, desperate moments over and over, each iteration more intense, more agonizing than the last. Victim # 11, The woman from the shack, relived the endless rapes and the moment of her betrayal and murder; her trust turned to terror as her boyfriend plunged the knife into her chest, the scene resetting just as she felt the life ebb from her body. A man experienced his final moments in a burning building, the flames licking his flesh, his screams unheard over the roar of the fire, only for him to be resurrected into the flames again and again.

This loop of despair was a psychological torment that broke the spirits far more effectively than any physical device. Each reenactment stripped away a piece of their essence, leaving them less than they were, shadows of the souls they once had been, bound eternally to their worst moment. The air in this part of the lair was thick with the scent of fear and sorrow.

This exhibition of everlasting torment was Candle Face’s hell, a landscape of suffering and despair that she ruled over with a cruel glee. Her laughter echoed through the caverns, a sound devoid of any humanity, a frightening reminder of the fate that awaited those who caught her ire. As I bore witness to these horrors, a sense of hopelessness enveloped me, a profound despair that threatened to drown me. I realized then that this wasn’t just another tour of Candle Face’s hell; it was a warning, a glimpse into the abyss that awaited those who dared to meddle in the affairs of the dead.

Candle Face’s ire manifested in the gruesome surroundings and her venomous words directed at me. Her voice, a terrifying mixture of anger and screams, filled the air as she confronted me. “Foolish mortal,” she began, her words laced with a fury that made the ground beneath us tremble. “You dared to trick a soul into answering a question directly, breaking a sacred silence that has governed the dead for eons. Did you think your actions were inconsequential? Did you fancy yourself a savior?”

Her form loomed over me, the flickering flames in her eyes casting unsettling shadows. Her sizzling skin popped like hot oil and splashed onto my face. “Your ignorance has wrought devastation upon those you claimed to help. Your feelings of superiority feed their endless suffering. Each spirit that has visited you, seeking solace, has been cast into the deepest pits of torment because of your meddling.”

I tried to find my voice, argue, and plead for understanding, but the words died in my throat, choked by the overwhelming presence of this wrathful demon thing.

Candle Face continued, her voice rising to a swelling echo that bounced off her hell’s walls. “You have not helped. You have harmed. You have not saved. You have condemned. And for that, you shall bear witness to the agony you have inflicted, an everlasting reminder of the price of your folly.”

Her accusations struck me harder than any physical blow could. I realized then the gravity of my actions, the dire consequences of reaching beyond my means to intervene in the affairs of the dead. Candle Face’s anger was an intense fury against my unintended transgressions.

“You sought to unravel the mysteries of death, to play at being a bridge between worlds,” she sneered, the air around us growing hotter with her every word. “But you are no bridge, Ray. You are a rift, a tear in the fabric that protects the living from the dead. Your presence has become a beacon, not of hope, but of ruin.”

With those final, damning words, Candle Face’s form seemed to dissolve into the darkness, leaving me alone with the weight of her condemnation. The realization that my attempts to help had only deepened the suffering of those I sought to aid was a heavier burden than any I had ever known. Her words will haunt me, a constant echo of the pain I had inadvertently caused, a blunt reminder of the delicate balance I had so recklessly disturbed.

As I stood there, enveloped by the oppressive darkness of Candle Face’s hell, the horrors I had witnessed became etched into my very soul. The laughter, the screams, the relentless torment of the lost souls—all were testaments to the disastrous impact of my actions. Candle Face’s scathing rebuke was a grim epilogue to my well-intentioned but tragically misguided endeavors, leaving me to ponder the true cost of my meddling.

The lost soul that stood before me a few nights ago, casting a weary gaze over the treats laid out on the counter, was more than just a lost soul; he was a man tormented by his past and trapped by the evilness of Candle Face. As he declined the brownies offer with a sad acknowledgment of the boundaries between our existences, I realized the gravity of his situation. This lost soul, once a living man grappling with homelessness and addiction, had been led astray by promises of salvation that only plunged him deeper into despair. His journey to my home wasn’t merely by chance but a desperate search for solace in a world that had long turned its back on him.

His story was a testament to the predatory nature of Candle Face. Lured by the false hope of escape from his daily struggles, he was embroiled in an evil plot that preyed on the most vulnerable. The man who had first approached him with stories of Candle Face had been a disciple of the ghost, using the desperation of the homeless to strengthen her grip on the world. This revelation shed a haunting light on the depth of Candle Face’s evil, revealing her not as a mere threat but a manipulative entity that fed on despair.

The spirit’s recounting of his final moments was a harrowing story of defeat and resignation. In his darkest hour, as he sought to end his suffering through alcohol, Candle Face appeared to claim his soul, declaring that his struggles weren’t merely personal demons but a battle with forces far beyond his comprehension. This moment of surrender marked the end of his fight, leaving him trapped in a nightmare that he could neither escape nor understand.

As he lingered by the brownies, a tangible symbol of the life he once knew, his yearning to taste his former existence was physical. Yet, his final words to me, “As much as I yearn for a taste of a life once familiar, some desires are best left unfulfilled,” spoke volumes. They weren’t just a resignation to his fate but an emotional reminder of the consequences of our interactions with the spirit world. I should have paid attention to his words.

This spirit’s visitation and his shared story underscored the dangerous nature of my attempts to communicate with the lost souls. In trying to provide solace, I had inadvertently exposed them to further torment at the hands of Candle Face. His cautionary story highlighted the complex consequences of breaching the space between the living and the dead. It was a profound lesson in the responsibility that comes with this newfound ability to communicate, a reminder that the path I tread is fraught with dangers unseen and forces beyond my understanding. I’ll not attempt to ask questions again. I’ve done enough damage.


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

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