February 20, 2024
Last night, I woke up from my usual middle-of-the-night routine—a trip to the bathroom—only to find a dripping-wet man standing by the couch when I returned. He was holding a beer bottle, and right away, I realized he wasn’t a burglar or intruder, but another spirit in need of my help.
I approached him, offering a handshake, but he pulled back, keeping a cautious distance. I was expecting that, so I sat down and got comfortable, prepared for his testimony. He looked like he was ready to talk, too. And so, his story began.
The Texas sun was just starting to dip, painting long shadows across Sixth Street. I was standing there, taking it all in, feeling like I’d finally made it. Months without a drink—it was something I never thought I’d manage. I wanted to prove I could be around it all—music, bars, people having a good time—without falling back into my old habits.
The street was buzzing that night, full of life and energy. Music spilling out of every doorway, laughter rolling through the air. Even though I was by myself, I felt like I belonged, like I was part of something bigger. I played a few games of pool, grabbed some street food, and for the first time in forever, I was really enjoying myself—no alcohol involved.
But then, things changed. A group of kids came up, handing out flyers like their lives depended on it. They had this wild look in their eyes, like they’d seen something no one else could understand. I tried to dodge them, but one girl stepped right in front of me. Tears were streaming down her face as she shoved a flyer into my hand, telling me it would save my life.
I glanced at it—a picture of a pretty little girl who they said was their deity. I didn’t buy into it. I mean, it was obviously some bizarre cult thing. The girl, though—the way she looked at me, like she was desperate and furious all at once—she said something about being punished if I didn’t believe. I just shook my head and walked off, chalking it up to a bad night for her.
I needed to get away from all that noise, so I headed down to Lady Bird Lake. It was quieter there, the air cooler. It felt like a good place to clear my head.
That’s when I heard it—a faint splash, then a child crying out for help. I didn’t even think. I ran toward the water, kicked off my shoes, and dove in. There she was, this little girl struggling to keep her head above water. I swam out and grabbed her, pulling her back toward the shore.
But when she spoke, it stopped me cold. ‘Why did you save me? Take me back,’ she said. Her voice—it wasn’t right. It didn’t match her small frame, and there was something so... wrong about the way she said it. I tried to calm her down, but she started pulling at me, dragging me back into the lake. She was impossibly strong, stronger than any kid could be.
Then her face—it changed. It wasn’t a little girl anymore. It was a girl with a burnt face. My heart felt like it froze right then and there.
I tried to fight her off, but she was relentless. She pulled a bottle out of the water—it just appeared in her hand—and shoved it against my lips. I begged her to stop, but she just laughed. The bottle tipped, and I couldn’t stop her. I swallowed, choking on the burn of it, and she just kept laughing.
I don’t know how long it lasted, but I could feel myself sinking. I was so weak, and she was so... powerful. My last thoughts were full of regret. I couldn’t believe it—after everything, they’d think I went back to the bottle. That I couldn’t stay sober. That was how they’d remember me.
Days later, they found my body. The papers said it was alcohol poisoning, that I must’ve fallen in the lake drunk. My friends, my family—they mourned the man they thought I was, not knowing the truth. It wasn’t the drink that killed me. It was that little girl.
And that girl with the flyers? I wonder if she ever thinks about me. Does she regret that night? Or does she take pride in what happened? Either way, regret is mine now—forever.
After he wrapped up his story, he took a step back. I caught myself staring at the beer bottle in his grip. Noticing my curiosity, he explained, “This bottle’s become part of me—my reminder and a sign to everyone trapped in Candle Face’s lair. It brands me as a drunk, a man who lost to his cravings.” With that, he took a sip, turned around, and disappeared into the portal.
Personal Note to My Readers
While listening to his testimony, I couldn’t help but think about the girl handing out flyers. How deep did her regrets go? Did she lie awake every night, haunted by the faces of those she believed she was helping, or—somewhere inside—did she take grim satisfaction in Candle Face’s curse as it unfolded?
The tragedy of this spirit—a sober man overtaken by forces beyond his control—leads me to consider all those who’ve met Candle Face’s wrath. How many people left home one night and never returned, their stories never told? And as our days roll on, how many more will become trapped by Candle Face, fates sealed by a flyer clutched in their trembling hands?
Thank you for walking these dimly lit streets of Austin with me, through the murky waters of Lady Bird Lake (Town Lake). May these stories stay with you, challenging all of us to consider fate, the power of belief, and the indelible marks we leave on the world—and on each other.
Key To Understanding
Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One]
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