January 23, 2024
It’s been two weeks since my last nocturnal visitor. I was starting to think they’d all given up on me, assuming I couldn’t help. I’ve tried, though—I’ve reached out to a long list of supposed paranormal “experts,” from investigators to mediums and psychics, and I’ve even shared the spirits’ testimonies on a podcast. But so far, no one has stepped forward in a meaningful way.
Then, last night, while I was in the kitchen making a snack, I heard the sunroom door creak open. My first thought was an intruder, and I braced myself. But when I turned, it wasn’t a thief—it was another lost soul, another victim of Candle Face.
He was a middle-aged man, drenched from head to toe, who stayed mostly in the shadows as he approached me. For some reason, I felt relief. After two weeks of silence, his appearance felt like a sign that I hadn’t been forgotten. Without any prompting, he began to share his story.
It was a warm night, and I was stumbling home from a party, my steps unsteady but my mind still sharp enough to find humor in the ghost stories we’d been laughing about all evening. The one about a young ghost girl? Ridiculous.
I was too caught up in my own amusement to notice when the streetlights began to dim, one by one.
“Believe in some kid ghost?” I scoffed into the night, my voice louder than it needed to be. “It’s all just a bunch of BS.”
And then she appeared. She stepped out of the treeline on the northern side of Longhorn Dam, her presence so sudden it felt like the night itself had conjured her from my disbelief.
“You do not believe,” she said, her voice calm.
I tried to laugh it off, but my voice wavered. “This can’t be real,” I said, fear creeping into my tone.
“All is real if you believe,” she replied. Her words carried a weight that was impossible to ignore.
I wanted to run, but my legs felt heavy, as though the night itself was holding me in place. The water’s edge was just a few steps away, its surface shimmering faintly under the dim light.
“Why me?” I asked, my voice trembling now.
She tilted her head, her hollow eyes meeting mine. “Because you laughed at me. You mocked what you did not understand. And for that, you will become part of my story.”
Her small hand reached out and gripped my arm. Her touch was firm, and I couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. She began pulling me toward the water’s edge.
“You will not be forgotten,” she said. But her words weren’t comforting.
Before I could fully grasp what was happening, I was submerged. The water closed over my head, cold and suffocating. Her laughter echoed all around me.
As the water filled my lungs, I understood the power of Candle Face’s story and my own place in it.
When he finished, he thanked me for listening. Then, just as quietly as he had arrived, he made his way back through the sunroom door and disappeared into the night.
There was something strange about him, though. He kept coughing throughout his story, and every time he did, water streamed from his mouth. It was hard to watch—he looked like he was in pain, grimacing with each word.
Seeing how soaked he was made me wonder if it was truly rain. The steady flow of water pouring from his mouth—clearly more than any rain could account for—felt like a clue, a reflection of how Candle Face had taken him. It was as though the water itself was part of his death, a symbol of his final moments.
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