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  • Writer's pictureArthur Mills

Candle Face Victim #3: Laughter Turns to Terror - A Night Out Gone Wrong

Candle Face Victim #3: Laughter Turns to Terror - A Night Out Gone Wrong

Candle Face Victim # 3

November 23, 2023

As I was on the brink of sleep last night, a nocturnal visitor once again visited me. This time, there were two of them, one male and one female. Their presence remained elusive, shrouded in the dimly lit corner of my room, where the shadows concealed their identities.

The male voice broke the silence, a plea for assistance. They yearned for me to be their conduit, to reveal the story of their demise and uncover the truth behind the individuals responsible. They seamlessly intertwined their stories with each word they spoke, piecing together a haunting story of their shared tragedy. Here’s their story:

I traveled to Austin with my girlfriend to visit a childhood friend. Upon arriving at his house, we quickly decided to venture out for a night of partying. Sixth Street offered many entertainment options, and we eagerly explored its nightlife. We visited several bars, each with its own unique charm, and indulged in the atmosphere, drinks, and laughter.
After an extended night of partying, we returned to my friend’s house. We gathered in his kitchen/dining area, where we continued to drink beer and a touch of marijuana. As the intoxication settled in, my friend began to speak of a threatening presence haunting his house with rattling chains and whispers in the air. I exchanged amused glances with my girlfriend, attributing his stories to the effects of alcohol and weed.
My girlfriend chuckled, “Ghosts rattling chains? That’s straight out of a horror movie.”
I joined in, “Exactly, ghosts are just a product of our imagination.”
However, my friend’s demeanor grew increasingly serious, which only fueled our laughter.
“I may have exaggerated, but there's a recurring presence here. She visits me now and then...,” he insisted.
“She?” I interrupted skeptically. “Does she say ‘Boo’ too?”
Ignoring our jests, he continued, “She asks for my assistance, urging me to find others who believe in her.”
“What do you mean, ‘believe’?” I inquired, intrigued despite my disbelief.
A somber tone crept into his voice as he described dreams featuring a disfigured little girl who communicates with him. Initially incomprehensible, her words grew clearer with time, and her messages became more unsettling.
“I’m out of here,” my girlfriend declared. “This is too much for me.”
“Why? Are you scared?” he asked, his gaze unwavering.
“No, I don’t believe in ghosts, but something about this story gives me goosebumps,” my girlfriend replied, her voice quivering.
“Believe it or not, Candle Face rewards those who heed her,” he revealed.
“Candle Face?” my girlfriend and I erupted in laughter at the bizarre name.
“She hears you,” he said, growing agitated. “She’s everywhere, always listening.”
“Does she have a list? Checks it twice?” I quipped as we laughed heartily.
Laughing, our friend left abruptly, walking out of his own home and vanishing into the night.
“Where did he go?” my girlfriend inquired, worry evident in her voice.
“I don’t know. Give him some time; he tends to get carried away,” I reassured her.
Fifteen tense minutes later, he returned with three strangers. A wave of dread washed over me instantly. One of the men held a machete, and the other a large tarp.
Instinctively, I tried to flee, making a desperate dash toward the back of the house. The loose rug beneath me hindered my escape, and I was forced back into the living room, my heart pounding with fear.
“He left you behind,” one of the men laughed.
The man with the tarp laid it carefully on the kitchen floor. “Get on the tarp. It’ll make cleanup easier.”
My girlfriend screamed, “Do something!”
The man with the machete laughed, saying, “He abandoned you.”
“I won’t get on that tarp,” I declared defiantly, my voice trembling.
My friend produced a monstrous cattle prod and immobilized me with a jolt. Powerless, I was dragged onto the tarp. The man with the machete severed my hands, one by one, while another gagged me with a handkerchief to stifle my screams.
Pain wracked my body as the machete sliced through my flesh, but I remained alive, tortured, and helpless. My agonizing screams faded into muted cries as my body was brutally dismembered. Only my head to pelvis remained intact, and the pain was unbearable. I yearned for death.
My girlfriend watched in horror, unable to intervene as my friend held her captive, forcing her to witness the grotesque ordeal. She, too, endured the same torment, though they stopped short of ending her life too. They wrapped us in the tarp and tossed us into the trunk of my car, alive. Some of my blood was left behind in the house, unseen by detectives.
We drove for what felt like an hour, the car filled with an oppressive silence. Eventually, the trunk opened, and we were cast into a dark gravel pit. My girlfriend and I were barely breathing by then, our lives slipping away. The last thing I heard before succumbing to my injuries was my friend’s voice: “All you had to do was believe.”
Now, I find myself in a nightmarish underworld, surrounded by tortured souls from all walks of life. Their agonized cries fill the darkness, creating a symphony of despair. The air is heavy with an unsettling stillness, interrupted only by the distant cries of tormented souls.
I lie here in excruciating pain, unable to move, my body a grotesque patchwork of severed limbs. The torment persists, and I long for the release of death.

After the pair left just as mysteriously as they had appeared, I hurried downstairs to document their story. This marked my third encounter, and fear had long given way to a profound understanding of my purpose. I recognized my role – to share their testimonies and help liberate them from the torment that bound them within Candle Face’s nightmarish grasp.

Personal Note to My Readers

We have two victims. Their stories ended in a frightening and unresolved manner. I invite you to join me in this investigative journey to uncover the identities of these victims, identify the final resting place of their bodies, and identify their killers.

Consider the evidence laid out in their testimony: the victims were last seen at the house of a childhood friend, a place that later became the scene of their tragic end. Let’s ponder the journey in the victim’s car, driven for about an hour - a detail that is crucial in determining where the bodies might be buried. Are any gravel pits within an hour’s drive from a suspect’s house?

Your insights could shed light on the shadowy corners of this story. Who are these victims, and where have they been taken? We know the killer has already been questioned at his home, but who is it? Every theory you propose, every connection you draw, brings us closer to the truth. Let’s unravel this mystery together. Your ideas and deductions aren't just welcome; they're essential to give closure to this story.


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



Antique typewriter, a portal to the chilling narratives within Candle Face Chronicles: The Journal. Immerse yourself in user accounts, victim stories, and paranormal clues. Join the investigation, unravel mysteries, and contribute to the collective knowledge in this gripping journey into the supernatural.

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