November 30, 2023
As I settled into bed tonight, with twilight casting long shadows over my room, I wasn’t surprised to see another spirit appear in the corner, entering just as the others had before. This one walked toward me with a noticeable limp, but there was a clear sense of purpose behind each step. I felt an odd calm, probably because I’ve grown used to these nightly visits. As it got closer, I could almost feel the air humming with a story it was waiting to share. And then it spoke:
Every time I limped through the streets of downtown Austin, things got quiet. The suit-and-tie types and folks in fancy clothes would shut up as I got close, like someone hit the mute button. Then, as soon as I was past, they’d start talking again, like I wasn’t even there. My limp was like a steady drumbeat—a reminder that life’s hard knocks hadn’t knocked me down. I didn’t mind that no one looked me in the eye. It was better that way. Trusting people? That’s not for me.
In the homeless community, we talked a lot about Candle Face. She was this story we clung to, something to distract us from the demons in our own heads. Some people called her by a different name, calling her a savior for the lost, a beacon for the broken. I wanted to believe that too, but no matter how many times I called for her, she never answered. The silence started to eat away at my belief, and after a while, it just withered, like flowers left out in the sun too long.
When she finally did show up, it wasn’t to save me. It wasn’t gentle or comforting. It was a scream—a raw, piercing sound that shattered the monotony of my days and nights. She wasn’t there to guide me. She was there to command me, to tell me I had to serve her and spread her story. Her demands were just another voice in a mind that already had too many. I lashed out, angry and bitter. My faith in her? Gone, replaced by something sour and sharp.
That was my mistake.
One evening, I was sitting on a bench, waiting for the bus, when the streetlights started to dim. Shadows stretched out in ways they shouldn’t. And then she came—Candle Face. Her hollow eyes and that gaping, empty mouth… I’ll never forget it.
“You do not believe,” she hissed. “Your faith is the light that feeds me, and your doubt... your punishment.”
Before I could say anything, her hands—hot, sizzling—grabbed my shoulders, and everything went blank. The city’s sounds faded to nothing, and I was dragged into the shadow of that bus stop.
In her lair, she showed me the truth. Candle Face wasn’t the savior I’d imagined. She was the guardian of a place caught between life and death, where spirits linger, trapped by their own skepticism. It was her hell, and now it was mine too.
She wasn’t collecting believers; she was collecting the lost. She fed on disbelief, turning it into her power.
My punishment wasn’t just in the haunting—it was becoming part of it. I was one of her stories now, a cautionary story for anyone who let their faith slip away. It’s not a fate I would’ve chosen, but I guess I earned it with my anger and doubt.
He nodded in gratitude, then slowly turned and limped back toward the corner he’d appeared from, fading into nothing. Eager not to lose any details, I rushed downstairs to write out his story immediately.
Personal Note to My Readers
It seems likely this victim was a homeless man who spent a lot of time downtown, but not necessarily living there, considering he was waiting for a bus late at night. One strong clue is his noticeable limp.
Has anyone heard of a missing homeless man known for his limp and spending time downtown? If so, that might be our lead.
Key To Understanding
Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One]
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