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  • Writer's pictureArthur Mills

Candle Face Victim #7: An Unwilling Alliance with Candle Face

Candle Face Victim #7: An Unwilling Alliance with Candle Face

Candle Face Victim # 7

December 15, 2023


I stayed awake later than usual tonight, not expecting any visitation since these nocturnal encounters typically happen every five to eight days. My wife had retired to bed earlier, leaving me alone, idly browsing through Facebook and YouTube videos. Unexpectedly, I experienced my first encounter with a spirit while fully conscious. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a faint movement in my sunroom, which had transformed into a dark void by midnight. I watched with anticipation and trepidation as she lingered there, seemingly waiting for me. I cautiously opened the double doors, stepped inside, and approached her, perhaps too closely, prompting her to retreat a few steps. Her eyes looked weary, and her body appeared exhausted, yet there was an intense sense of desperation about her, an urgency to share her story. And so she did, her story scattered with lengthy pauses for sobs as she struggled to compose herself and convey her haunting message. Here’s her story:

It was the Autumn of 2011, a season of change, but it was the beginning of an unending nightmare for me. It started innocently enough, like any other dream, just a dark bedroom, cold and quiet. The kind of silence that feels heavy and oppressive. But from the shadows, a figure moved, a crawling silhouette, its movements deliberate. It was Candle Face, the phantom, a legend from my hometown of Austin, Texas.
She approached the foot of my bed, her form barely more than a wisp in the darkness, and slowly, deliberately, rose to kneel before me, waiting for my response. It was a ritual, a sacred and terrifying communion. And every time she asked, her voice barely a whisper, “Do you believe?”
I did believe. I always did, even when folks in town would laugh it off as superstition. I wasn’t lying. “Yes,” I’d whispered back, my heart hammering against my ribs, a primal fear and exhilaration drumbeat.
When she spoke, her voice was like a sizzling breeze against my skin, burning yet chilling. “Thank you,” she always replied. And as suddenly as it began, I’d find myself gasping, awake in the dim light of dawn. Ready to start the day as if nothing had happened, as if the night hadn’t been filled with shadows and whispers.
But the dreams changed in the following weeks, evolving into something far more menacing. I was no longer just a passive observer in my nightmares. Candle Face, this haunted being of darkness and dread, took me to the voids of terror, letting me witness the horrors she inflicted upon the disbelievers. As their screams echoed in those desolate spaces, she would turn to me, her face obscured, a paradox of shadows and fear, and whisper, “Bring more to me.” Those words hung in the dark of the night, an echo in my mind as I’d jerk awake, bathed in sweat, the terror lingering like a bad aftertaste.
One evening, an ordinary night like any other, the room around me began to shift subtly as I lay in bed watching TV. It felt more tangible, as if the line between dream and reality had blurred, the boundaries fraying like old fabric. She came again, slithering from the shadows, a formless fear manifesting. But this time, her presence bore an intense, unmistakable purpose.
“Find them,” she hissed, her voice scratching the very walls of my soul, a sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. “Bring me the disbelievers, and I’ll reward you.”
My voice wavered but held firm, “I believe in you, nothing more. I won’t be part of this.”
She drew herself closer, her form coalescing into something more solid, her voice dripping with malice, “Belief is merely the gateway; your soul is the prize.”
“Bring me the disbelievers, and I’ll reward you,” she repeated, her voice a serpent’s whisper, a temptation and a threat all rolled into one.
Those encounters became the rhythm of my nights, an unending cycle of fear and resistance. Her lingering whispers haunted the days, her words a constant, unnerving presence in the back of my mind. Her relentless demands consumed the nights. I resisted every single time. I’d faced my own demons before, faced darkness both within and without, and I wasn’t about to be commanded by an external one.
But she, Candle Face, had her own timeline, her own patience. And it ran out. She came on a night much like any other, filled with the howling wind and a room with a thick, intense dread. As I lay there, paralyzed, she began her assault, consuming me, starting with my feet. The pain was intense and very real, a searing agony that seemed to burn me from the inside out. I could feel her taking me, piece by piece, my essence being peeled away until I became a part of her.
Now, I exist, but not as myself. I’m her eyes, her witness, forever bound to the chaos she spreads. From the other side of those haunting sockets, I see the world through a shroud of darkness, the pain, the fear, and the endless night she sows. And as she moves through the night, consuming the souls of those who defy her and dare to disbelieve, I watch, powerless, trapped in the prison of my belief, a silent observer in a world of shadows and screams.

The apparition retreated into the corner from whence she emerged. Heavy with desperation, her voice implored, “Help me, Ray. Please find my body somewhere in the Barton Creek Greenbelt...” Before she could utter another word, two immense skeletal arms burst from the shadows behind her. With a force so violent, her legs were lifted off the ground as she was yanked back into the darkness. Accompanying this terrifying scene was a scream so chilling, so filled with agony and fear, it seemed to echo endlessly, haunting the very air around me.


I hurried downstairs, driven by a sense of urgency to document her traumatic experience. My fingers trembled, and my heart ached with empathy for her suffering, a consequence of revealing too much to me. This turmoil caused me to lose some details in the chaos of the moment.


Personal Note to My Readers


This is the second instance where it seems like a spirit has suffered consequences for making physical contact with me or perhaps revealing too much information. I’ve attempted to assist these lost souls, but I can’t help but fear that I haven’t fulfilled my part of the bargain. As I begin to share their pleas and stories, it becomes apparent that I may be doing more harm than good. Doubts creep in, and I worry that I’m not the right person for this task and have failed to aid them thus far. I don’t think I can handle this alone. Are there any paranormal investigators, mediums, or psychics out there who won’t shy away from helping me?

 

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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