May 12, 2024 As I settled into the couch, the weight of the day's worries began to lift slightly. Something compelled me to open my eyes, and when I did, I saw a flickering of shadows against the far wall, as if the dim light had suddenly become shy. That's when I saw him—my next lost soul. He materialized near the window, his form vague and shimmering. He stood there, silently watching, as if gauging my reaction. It was clear he had something to reveal, some message or unfinished business in my living room. I sat up, and he walked over to me and sat down next to me. My eyes glaring into his was his cue to start. I first heard the stories of Candle Face on the corner of Congress Avenue and Sixth Street in Austin, TX. A group of fellow homeless people, their eyes haunted, were gathered around a light post and bench, speaking about a ghostly girl who haunted those who dared to scoff at her existence. I, a staunch skeptic, found the notion laughable and investigated further. A woman led the group with piercing blue eyes. She spoke of Candle Face with a mix of fear and reverence, claiming that the ghost was once a young girl who met a tragic end, her face disfigured in a terrible fire. Now, she roamed the streets of Austin, seeking out those who disbelieved her story, drawing them into her world of shadows and torment. Intrigued and skeptical, I challenged their belief, mocking the idea of a ghost punishing non-believers. The woman’s gaze hardened and warned me, “Mock her, and you invite her wrath. She’ll show you the truth, but it’ll cost you more than you can imagine.” That night, as I lay under Interstate Highway 35, the air in my tent grew hot, and a sense of unease washed over me. I heard a faint voice, a childlike voice, calling my name. I sat up, heart racing, and that’s when I saw her – Candle Face. Her appearance was horrifying, her face charred and twisted, her eyes hollow. She stared at me, and at that moment, I felt a terror unlike anything I had ever known. In her hand, she menacingly played with a needle, rolling it between her charred fingers as if pondering its use. She spoke in an innocent and menacing voice, “Come with me.” The world around me twisted, and I found myself in a nightmarish landscape, the streets of Austin transformed into a hellscape of shadows and fire. As we walked through the twisted hellscape of Austin's transformed streets, Candle Face’s innocent and foreboding voice filled the air. She spoke of her longing not just for believers but for a connection that went beyond mere acknowledgment. "I seek those who will embrace my story, spread it far and wide, and in doing so, weave me into the fabric of their lives," she explained in her tone, a mix of desperation and command. She revealed a duality within her existence: to the devoted, she appeared as a guardian spirit, offering solace and alleviating the suffering of those engulfed by emotional and psychological torment. This caring aspect seemed a cry for redemption, a plea to be seen as more than a horror figure. "To those who believe, I am a beacon of hope in the darkness, a guiding light away from despair," she said, her voice softening. Yet, her demeanor hardened as she spoke of the others—the skeptics. "But to those who deny me, who cast aside my presence as a mere joke, I am the retribution they fear," she declared coldly. Her need to be acknowledged, feared, and revered intertwined tightly with her actions. She craved to be a part of the world and shape it, manipulating perceptions and realities to suit her desires. Candle Face's existence, she confessed, drew power from the community's collective consciousness, from their fears, beliefs, and the very essence of their spiritual engagements. "I am born of both reverence and disdain and each disbelief, each skeptic's scorn, only fuels my essence," she explained, her eyes glinting with a complex mix of malice and yearning. Her strategy in selecting me as her conduit, her messenger to the living, was clear. She fluctuated between menacing threats and an almost plaintive appeal for my help, underscoring her manipulative yet deeply strategic nature. "In sharing my story, you offer me the tribute of memory and belief. In return, I offer a warning—and perhaps, for some, salvation," she concluded, her voice echoing around us, as haunting as the shadowy flames that danced along the ruined streets. The experience was overwhelming, and I begged her to let me go, promising to believe, to tell her story. With a frightening laugh, she released me, and I awoke in my tent, drenched in sweat, the echoes of her laughter still ringing in my ears. The next day, I was a changed person. I couldn’t shake the images of what I had seen or the haunting presence of Candle Face, but something was profoundly different. All my usual pains, the constant headaches, the aches from years of alcohol and drug abuse, and even the mental fog and anguish that had shadowed my life had vanished. I felt rejuvenated, as if years of physical and mental torment had been lifted off my shoulders, leaving me feeling like a million dollars. I was drawn to the group I had once mocked, seeking answers and understanding. They welcomed me, seeing the change in my eyes. I learned that they, too, had experienced encounters with Candle Face, each with their own disturbing account. They had chosen to believe, to spread her story. Together, we roamed the streets at night, sharing the stories of Candle Face with anyone who would listen. We became her disciples, her messengers, spreading the word of her existence. It was our hope that by doing so, we could spare others from her wrath. But even as I told her story, a part of me wrestled with the reality of it all. Was Candle Face real, or was she a manifestation of our collective fears, a symbol of the dark truths we refuse to face? Was she truly a ghost or something far more evil? These questions haunted me even as I continued to share her story. But my doubt would soon be my undoing. In my dream, Candle Face appeared once more that night, her face more grotesque than ever. “You lost faith,” she hissed, her voice dripping with malice. Before I could react, her hands were upon me, her fingers clamping down on my mouth and nose, cutting off my breath. The skin of her hands felt like the rough bark of a burnt tree. Her grip tightened, her charred fingers pressing relentlessly, merging the smell of scorched flesh with the stifling panic of suffocation. I tried to scream, but the sound was muffled against her palm, a suffocating silence that seemed to swallow my very soul. Her hollow eyes, voids darker than the night itself, bore into mine with a cruel satisfaction. Around us, the shadows seemed to pulse with life, chanting in a language not meant for human ears. As the air in my lungs dwindled, the edges of my vision frayed into darkness. Each heartbeat thundered in my ears, slower and more labored than the last as if my life force was being drained into the abyss of her gaze. The terror was so profound, so paralyzing, that it seemed to freeze the very marrow in my bones. As my vision darkened and my struggles weakened, I realized the terrible truth. Candle Face wasn’t a figment of imagination or a shared delusion. She was a relentless entity, punishing those who dared to doubt her existence. My last thoughts were filled with regret and terror, understanding too late the power of belief and the fatal consequences of skepticism. As my consciousness slipped away, only the cold touch of a needle remained in my arm—a relic of a life I had long forsaken, now mysteriously returned as if guided by an invisible, evil force. The lost soul stood up and walked towards the portal in the far corner of the living room. His movements were slow, almost hesitant. As he neared the shadowy portal, his own shadow stretched out on the wall behind him. The needle still stuck out from his left arm, a grim reminder of his past. He paused at the portal's edge, looking back at me one last time with a mix of sadness and resignation. Then he turned, stepped through the portal, and disappeared. The room fell quiet, the portal vanished, and all that was left was the dim light from the dining room.

SPOILER ALERT: This journal entry contains insights about Ray and his role in The Empty Lot Next Door. If you’re trying to avoid spoilers, it’s advisable not to read further until you’ve finished the book. Reading this entry may reveal important plot details that you’d rather discover on your own. May 09, 2024 Ray, The Empty Lot Next Door’s narrator, begins his story by moving into a new house and sharing a room with his brother Ricky. This introduction sets the stage for Ray’s journey, one marked by a constant struggle for identity and independence. His experiences, especially with the supernatural entity Candle Face, significantly shape his character development. Ray’s encounters with Candle Face are marked by fear and terror, reflecting his inner struggles and challenges in his environment. Ray’s desire for an independent identity is evident in his quest to distinguish himself from his brother Ricky. He yearns to be recognized for his achievements and not merely as Ricky’s younger brother. This aspiration reflects his struggle with self-esteem and the search for self-worth. His interactions with others, including his teachers and peers, reveal his internal conflict between expressing himself and conforming to societal expectations. Throughout the story, Ray grapples with fear, not just of the supernatural but also of his family and his environment. This fear manifests in various forms, from his paralysis during Candle Face’s attacks to his inability to confront his abusive brothers. Ray’s journey is also a quest for the truth about his family’s history and the mysterious events surrounding Candle Face. His discoveries about the past fire in his house and the tragic death of a young girl are pivotal moments, unraveling the complex fabric of his family’s past and the mysteries he seeks to understand. A significant turning point in Ray’s story is his decision to confront his past and the traumas he has faced. This moment of courage, where he questions his brothers about their past actions, marks a departure from his previous self, characterized by fear and avoidance. Ray’s character is also defined by his relationships, particularly with his brother Ricky. Their bond is complex, filled with admiration and a sense of competition. Ray’s reflections on Ricky’s life, his struggles, and his untimely death reveal deep emotional ties and a profound sense of loss. In the end, Ray’s transformation from a scared, unsure boy with a severe stutter to a reflective, self-aware individual is a testament to his resilience and strength. His story, filled with supernatural encounters, familial conflicts, and personal struggles, offers a rich exploration of a character navigating a complicated world. Ultimately, Ray emerges as a character who, despite his fears and challenges, finds a way to confront his past, understand his identity, and look toward the future with a sense of clarity and purpose.

May 6, 2024 Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] is now available on Amazon. My investigation into the origins of Candle Face, the menacing entity from my childhood, began in October 2023. Within a month, her victims were reaching out to me for assistance. You might wonder why they chose me. I suspect it’s due to my personal history with Candle Face and my writing skills, enabling me to transform their haunting experiences into stories that captivate and mobilize the public. Although my background in intelligence analysis, missing persons, and human trafficking laid a strong foundation, I sought the expertise of paranormal professionals to decipher the cryptic messages from these spirits. I’ve engaged with numerous paranormal investigators, psychics, and mediums nationwide. While some focus on less menacing activities like chasing orbs and posting grainy and blurry ghost images—often just illusions of pareidolia, it’s crucial to recognize the invaluable efforts of the paranormal community. Many of those deeply committed to the field work tirelessly, often facing significant personal risk, to bring clarity and resolution to those plagued by unexplained phenomena. However, I’m faced with the daunting challenge of Candle Face, so I’m now turning to a broader audience: those who, despite their fears, are eager to turn the next page and investigate deeper into the paranormal. Calling all enthusiasts of paranormal stories and mysteries! Don your Sherlock Holmes hats, secure your copy of Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One], and join me in the crucial fight to liberate these tormented souls from Candle Face’s clutches. Together, we can unravel these dark mysteries and restore peace. While you can explore most of The Lost Souls [Book One] directly on our website at www.candleface.com, purchasing the Kindle eBook or the upcoming paperback and hardcopy editions offers the tangible pleasure of owning a copy. For fellow readers, there’s nothing like the aroma of a book paired with a cup of coffee. More importantly, your purchase funds further research and travel to suspected murder and burial sites linked to Candle Face, enabling deeper investigations and the possibility of resolving these mysteries. Each purchase is a crucial contribution towards unveiling the truth behind Candle Face and bringing solace to the lost souls. By acquiring the book, you’re not just getting a thrilling read; you’re actively joining a quest for truth and justice. Your purchase is more than a transaction; it's a crucial contribution towards continuing the exploration and ensuring no stone goes unturned. Your engagement and support make a profound difference in our journey to document and solve this mystery. Together, we can make history by freeing the lost souls held captive by Candle Face. Readers have historically played a pivotal role in solving complex mysteries, both fictional and real. The collective insight of an engaged audience can be incredibly powerful. Historically, public assistance has helped unravel complicated cases, such as the capture of the Golden State Killer, propelled by renewed interest following true crime books and documentaries. Similarly, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was influenced by the countless letters from fans theorizing about Sherlock Holmes. In today’s digital age, online communities and social media platforms continue this tradition, often unearthing new perspectives that professional investigators may overlook. By engaging with Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One], your insights could lead to breakthroughs, drawing us closer to understanding the true story of Candle Face and potentially unearthing new evidence. Your active participation is key to unlocking these secrets and bringing peace to the souls trapped in Candle Face’s hell. Your involvement extends beyond reading; it contributes to a collective effort to solve one of the darkest mysteries of our time. Join us, and let’s make history together by freeing the lost souls held captive by Candle Face. Get your copy today on Amazon.

April 30, 2024 Retirement life offers its share of surprises. Some days, I find myself occupied with household chores, while on other days, I’m deep into endless scrolling on Facebook and YouTube. Today was one of those latter days. I must have spent 12 hours lounging on my couch in my boxers, watching video after video. The soft glow of the screen illuminated the room, casting shadows that danced across the pale walls. Around 4:00 a.m., the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. Assuming it was my son, I initially didn’t look up. But then, the sound of a woman clearing her throat made me pause—it seemed she wanted to be noticed. Glancing up, I saw a woman in her early thirties, a man’s tie knotted tightly around her neck. Her eyes, filled with a mixture of desperation and determination, instantly grabbed my attention. I immediately wondered if this spirit would attempt to attack me like others have in the past. Recognizing the signs of a story waiting to be told, I sat up and pulled out my notebook filled with paranormal investigation forms, ready to document her testimony. She took this as her signal to start and narrated her story in a scratchy, high-pitched voice. Repetitive conversations and predictable routines had come to define our lives. Each day was a mirror image of the one before, marked by the same words exchanged without conviction and passionless kisses that barely registered. We were stuck in the well-worn groove of our marriage, circling the same patterns with unwavering consistency. “Planning for Christmas shopping?” my husband asked, his voice devoid of genuine interest as we sat in the dimly lit restaurant, the clatter of dishes and murmurs of nearby conversations serving as the backdrop to our well-rehearsed dialogue. I dipped my fingers into my purse, retrieving my lipstick with a practiced motion. Without making eye contact, I replied, “Trying to beat the holiday rush.” Our synchronized movements continued as we both rose from our seats, “Love you,” he said, a phrase that had once carried the weight of devotion but now felt as empty as the restaurant on a Tuesday night. With a heavy heart, I replied, “Love you too,” and we exited the restaurant, his hand slipping into mine out of habit. The routine continued as I drove him back to work, our conversation drifting into silence, punctuated only by the sound of traffic. Once he closed the car door behind him, I sped away, driven by an urgency that only I could comprehend. The destination was familiar: a nondescript apartment in North Austin. I had come to find solace and excitement in the arms of my boyfriend, a man who represented a stark contrast to my husband. Our relationship was built on philosophical debates, shared adventures, and a passion that had been missing from my marriage for far too long. These clandestine encounters had become my lifeline, a way to escape the monotony of my daily existence. The door to the apartment swung open, and the familiar scent of his musky cologne mixed with the faint smell of old books greeted me. “Finally,” he said, his voice deep and filled with anticipation. In his embrace, I found refuge from the mundanity of my marriage. My boyfriend’s allure was his ability to awaken something dormant within me, to breathe life into the hollow spaces of my heart. These stolen moments were our escape, a secret world where passion and desire reigned supreme. But on this particular night, as I nestled into the warmth of his arms, something felt different. His eyes, usually filled with longing, were now brimming with tears. “You shouldn’t have ridiculed her,” he whispered in my ear, his voice shaky and regretful. A sudden gust of wind made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and the dimly lit room seemed to come alive with dancing shadows. Among them, I saw a haunting silhouette, its eyes empty of life and its mouth twisted into a grotesque grin. Panic seized me, and I pulled away from my boyfriend, searching for an explanation. He began to chant in a language I couldn’t understand. His words synchronized with the dance of the shadows. “Why? I trusted you,” I pleaded in a choked voice, my heart pounding with fear. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he spoke tremblingly. “She requires devotion, of which you’re empty. And I must indulge her.” The atmosphere grew heavy with wicked energy, and laughter echoed ominously around the room. Weeks passed, and my absence remained unexplained. Rumors circulated about my mysterious disappearance filled the air. My husband and boyfriend found themselves face to face in a secluded bar on the outskirts of Austin. Taking a gulp from his drink, my boyfriend broke the silence. “I didn’t wish for this,” he admitted, his eyes haunted by the unfolding events. My husband’s reply was even more disturbing, his voice lacking remorse. “It was either her or us.” “Faith holds strength,” mused my boyfriend, his gaze fixed on the swirling patterns in his glass, “but doubt can be fatal.” The lost soul tugged at the tight necktie around her neck, attempting to loosen it, but it only tightened further. As she attempted to adjust the tie, she caught my gaze with a knowing look, her eyes weary yet intense. She smiled at me and offered a piece of advice: “Don’t be discouraged about helping the lost souls,” she began, her voice soft yet clear in the room’s stillness. “We’re not all bad. If you’re an asshole in life, you’re an asshole in death too.” She paused, likely contemplating what she had observed from Candle Face’s hell, then continued, “But it’s not just the bad; the good carry on too. People who spend their lives spreading kindness and love don’t lose that when they pass. They remain kind, gentle spirits, seeking to guide and comfort the living. In death, as in life, our spirits mirror who we really were.” Her words hung in the air, a simple truth that suddenly made the world of spirits seem less mysterious and more like a continuation of what we already know. She gestured towards the shadowy portal that shimmered in the corner of the room—a gateway between her world and mine. “Just as misery loves company, joy seeks to spread happiness. Remember, every soul has a story, and each reflects its life. So when you meet one of us, think not just of what you see but of what we were.”

April 25, 2024 It’s been six days since my last nocturnal visitor. These encounters have taken me on a rollercoaster of emotions, from dread to anticipation and back to fear. Thankfully, I had a short break. But that ended abruptly this morning. As I settled on the couch, ready for sleep, I noticed the shadow in the far corner of the living room start to expand. “Here we go,” I thought, my heart pounding in my chest. I took a deep breath, preparing for the spirit’s approach. The figure, a young man in his early to mid-twenties draped in a sheet, surveyed me before moving closer. My steady, silent gaze met his eyes, signaling him to begin. And so, he shared his story: I left my apartment in San Marcos, heading to my parents’ place near Houston. After entering their address into my GPS, I set off late in the evening, hoping to avoid the Christmas season traffic. My journey took me along Highway 80. Near the small town of Stairtown, I noticed a man in a construction vest and hard hat on the side of the road. He held a large white sign above his head, which read, “CONTINUE STRAIGHT,” accompanied by a black arrow pointing forward. He waved as I drove past, seeming like a construction worker directing traffic despite no apparent construction. A few minutes later, I encountered a woman wearing a construction vest and hard hat, displaying a sign that read, “KEEP GOING, YOU’RE ALMOST THERE.” She waved, and I honked my horn in response. By then, my GPS signal had dropped, forcing me to rely on my memory, which was shaky since it was only my third time driving this route. Where Highway 80 and Highway 183 intersect, another woman held a sign with an arrow pointing straight ahead. I hesitated, thinking I needed to turn right, but she pointed directly at me and instructed me to continue straight. As I complied, she shouted, “I love you!” prompting me to laugh and honk in return. At an intersection, a group stood, each holding a sign. One sign caught my attention; it read, “BEYOND THIS PATH LIES THE UNKNOWN. TRUST YOUR HEART TO LEAD YOU HOME.” It felt like a prank by my college friends, who knew I’d be passing through. Feeling more relaxed and entertained by the apparent joke, I sped up. Moments later, I spotted three friends from school by the roadside, waving signs that read, “YOU MADE IT,” “WELCOME HOME,” and “I LOVE YOU.” As they suddenly jumped in front of my car, I swerved to avoid hitting them, skidding to a halt on the dirt road. I leaped out, greeted by the glare of my car’s headlights. “What are ya’ll doing here?” Laughter was my only response from my friends. They rushed to me, grabbed my arms, and began directing me to step across some barbed wire fencing. “Where’re we going?” I asked, a mix of excitement and apprehension in my voice. “We’re going to a party, and you’re the guest of honor,” they replied, their voices now hollow. Feeling a growing sense of unease, I hesitated. “Wait, I need to know where we’re going before I go any further,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. “Don’t be a baby; we love you,” they chuckled, their tones now unmistakably menacing. At that moment, my instincts screamed that something was deeply wrong. I took a step back towards the barbed wire fence. “I think I should head back to my car,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. In an instant, the familiar features of my three college friends contorted, their bodies stretching and twisting. Their once recognizable forms dissipated into tall, dark, swirling shadows that hovered just above the ground. The air around us grew hot and heavy, pressing against my skin. One of the shadows moved closer, its form becoming more defined yet no less terrifying. It appeared almost human but elongated and distorted, like a reflection in a funhouse mirror. The voice that emerged from it was unexpectedly smooth, chillingly serene against its ghastly appearance. “This isn’t a request,” it said. Slowly, it tilted its head towards an old structure hidden deep in the thick brush, barely visible. The shadows stripped me of my clothes and dragged me to this house. The house seemed to sag under the weight of countless years, its windows dark and vacant. “Come,” the shadow urged. “She is waiting for you.” The shadows pushed me forward against my will. “No, I... I need to go,” I responded, but the shadows didn’t heed my protests. They, instead, ushered me through the door. Once inside, the old wood under my feet creaked like bones cracking with every step. The air was hot and heavy; each breath I took felt heavier than the last, filled with the smell of decay and old earth. The shadows were now silhouetted against dozens of candles along the room’s perimeter and center. The flames guided me to the center of an old, dusty room. Suddenly, the space around me began to glitter, and from the shadows, Candle Face emerged. She wasn’t a young girl from the stories I have heard, but a tall and slender woman, her wax-like face illuminated softly by the candlelight. The hollow eye sockets, dark and deep, seemed to look right into my soul. Candle Face said to me with a wrinkled brow, “I am irate,” she began, her voice echoing around the room, “that you refuse to believe in me. Despite my many attempts and all I have done for you, your doubt has worn my patience thin.” The air grew hotter with each word, the shadows around us growing more intense. I tried to speak, apologize, and plead, but fear tightened around my throat, squeezing the words back down. “You will not ignore me any longer,” Candle Face declared. With a wave of her hand, the floorboards beneath me gave way and landed softly but firmly just below the house. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed I wasn’t alone. Dozens of others lay under the floorboards, their eyes hollow yet seemingly looking right at me. In a haunting chorus, they sang, “I love you,” over and over again. As I lay there, trapped beneath the house’s floorboards, Candle Face had more to say. She wasn’t done with me yet, she said in a faint yet unmistakable voice, “One day, someone will come looking for you, someone who loves you,” Candle Face said, her voice fading into the enveloping shadows, laughing as her voice faded. The silence that followed was deafening and thick with the scent of old earth. I felt the presence of the other spirits around me, each trapped in their own nightmare, their stories untold and forgotten, their fates sealed like mine. “It is not merely to torment you that I bind you here,” Candle Face’s voice emerged again. “There is a way out of this darkness, a puzzle that, if solved, will break the chains that tether you to this place.” A flicker of light appeared above me as if the mere mention of escape gave me hope. “Listen well,” she continued, “for this riddle is your only key to salvation. The only one who truly understands the depths of this house’s power can unravel its meaning and grant you release.” The air grew even hotter, and I braced myself as she delivered the riddle. The silence returned but now charged with the faintest chance of possibility—that someone could come, solve the riddle, and free me from Candle Face’s hell. Who’s this person who will come looking for me? The answer remained trapped within the walls of the haunted house, just as I remained trapped under its creaking boards. The spirit paused at the threshold of the shadowy portal, glancing over its shoulder. It offered me a weary smile before turning to leave. “Wait,” I called out, louder than I intended. The sharpness of my own voice startled both of us. The spirit whirled around, eyes wide with surprise—and perhaps fear. I realized then that I had made a grave mistake. Candle Face had explicitly warned me against conversing with the lost souls. Yet, here I was, having already crossed that line. Accepting my error, I decided to seize the moment. “What’s the riddle? What did Candle Face tell you? If you expect my help, you must help me. What’s the riddle?” I demanded. The spirit cast a wary look back into the shadows, then back at me, a silent acknowledgment that it had nothing to lose. “She posed this riddle: ‘Across the cemetery’s silent stones, I love you pierces through the bones. Who hears this declaration low, where none but departed souls may go?’” With those words, he turned back, stepping hesitantly towards the portal. He paused, seemingly torn, and a calm but firm voice from within the shadows called out, “Come.” With a nod, he disappeared into the darkness. Personal Note to My Readers I scribbled the riddle onto a sheet of paper and hurried to my computer to document the rest of his testimony. What could this riddle mean? “Across the cemetery’s silent stones, ‘I love you’ pierces through the bones. Who hears this declaration low, where none but departed souls may go?” The recurring theme of “I love you” threads through everything—from the road signs and the “construction workers” to the shadows, the spirits under the floorboards, and now this riddle. What does “I love you” mean relating to this lost soul? Frustrated by a lack of answers from an online search, I pondered reaching out to the paranormal community. However, they often seemed more preoccupied with chasing dusk particles on camera lenses than engaging with genuine paranormal cases. Perhaps I’ll go on a trip to see it for myself. It’s just less than two hours away. After all, with 30 years of intelligence and investigations under my belt, it was time to rely on myself to find the answers.

April 17, 2024 I drove to Sugar Land, Texas, for a late conference and arrived much earlier than planned, expecting heavy traffic. With time to spare, I stopped at Schlotzsky’s for dinner. After my meal, with still plenty of time to kill, I settled back in my car and reached for my phone, planning to pass the time watching cute puppy videos on YouTube. Instead of a relaxing video session, I was startled when a young woman in her twenties suddenly opened the locked passenger door and climbed in. Noticing she was missing half her head, I realized this wasn’t a robbery; this was story time. Here’s her story: Living in Austin, a town full of myths and legends, I had always been a skeptic. Out of all of them, the story of Candle Face amused me the most. I considered it nothing more than a bedtime story for the gullible; a story spun to keep children from misbehaving. However, little did I know that my skepticism would soon be tested. It all began with my secret pen pal from San Francisco. We didn’t use Facebook or any other social media site to communicate; we preferred the more personal use of pen and paper. We had been exchanging letters for years, sharing stories about our lives, dreams, and occasional fears. But lately, something had shifted in her letters. They took on an unnerving tone, filled with references to ghosts, vampires, and the alike. One day, she wrote to me about the ritual to summon Bloody Mary, a story I had heard a hundred times in my youth. I shrugged it off, humored her, and even tried the ritual myself in front of my bathroom mirror. Naturally, nothing happened, and I chuckled at the superstitious nonsense. However, as the months passed, my pen pal’s letters dug deeper into the supernatural. She began recounting stories of sightings and experiences that she claimed were real. Her words painted a picture of a world where myths and legends held sway over reality, and she seemed to be spiraling out of control. One evening, as I sat by my desk, I received a letter from my pen pal. Her handwriting, usually neat and precise, now appeared hurried and trembling. She implored me to find information about Candle Face, the legendary ghost of Austin, and mail it to her. It was as if she believed that understanding the legend would provide answers to the mysteries that haunted her. Instead of immersing myself in the folklore, I decided to concoct my own stories of Candle Face, intending to send her a letter filled with fabricated details and spooky stories. It was all in good fun, I thought, a harmless attempt to ease her troubled mind. I penned my letter, full of myths and legends around Candle Face, each more frightening than the last. I embellished the details, painting her as a vengeful spirit with a thirst for the souls of skeptics. With my fabricated information, I placed the letter in the mailbox at the local post office. Two weeks had passed since I had received a letter from my pen pal. I began to worry that my letter was a mistake, that I may have gone too far. I walked to the post office to drop off another letter to my pen pal, confessing the stories about Candle Face were false. On my way home from the post office, my mind was preoccupied with thoughts of my pen pal and her descent into the paranormal world. As I wandered through the streets of my neighborhood, lost in my thoughts, I had a chance encounter with a boy from my old high school. We struck up a conversation that flowed effortlessly as if our souls had known each other for lifetimes, and hours passed in the blink of an eye as we talked about our dreams, our fears, and our shared love for the mysteries of the world. As the evening sun descended below the horizon, he offered to walk me home. It was a kind gesture, but my heart longed for a moment of solitude, a chance to reconnect with the familiar comfort of the woods that bordered my neighborhood. I assured him I would be fine and went to the open spot of the woods that had always been my sanctuary. Sitting on a familiar log, I let my thoughts drift to my pen pal. I intended to share the beautiful encounter I had just experienced, hoping it would distract her from the gloomy stories that seemed to consume her. I wanted to draw her attention back to the world around her, to remind her that there was beauty and wonder beyond the realm of myths and legends. Yet, on that evening, the woods felt different. They seemed alive, anticipating something I couldn’t comprehend. Faint voices floated through the air, words that raised the tiny hairs on the back of my neck. “Believe. Accept.” The words wrapped around me, their meaning eluding my understanding. Was it my imagination running wild? Suddenly, a warm gust of wind swept through the trees, and I turned around, my heart pounding in my chest. What I saw made my blood run cold. Standing before me was the legend I had ridiculed for so long – Candle Face. Her appearance was nightmarish, her face melting away like wax dripping from a candle. The stories had never done her justice. Fear gripped me, and I realized that she was here because of me because I had dismissed her existence as nothing more than a figment of my imagination. “Are you going to kill me?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Yes, of course,” Candle Face answered with a booming laugh. “Why?” I managed to ask despite my fear. Candle Face’s lips curled into a cruel smile, her voice rasping like dry leaves skittering over stone. “Because, little girl, you mocked me. You denied my existence; you used me for your jest and wrote lies to your pen pal. Your fabrications have summoned me here.” “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I thought it was harmless,” I said, panic rising in my voice. “Sorry? Your sorry means nothing. There are plenty of true horrors about me, yet you chose to invent stories. There is no need to fabricate. Each false story seeds disbelief and mockery, undermining the fear I feed upon.” Candle Face leaned closer, her face distorting as if the wax melted faster with her fury. “Your pen pal, oh, how she feared and respected me. Her fear was delicious, and so was her body. But you, with your letters, you tried to make light of the dark. Now, her soul is mine, twisted by the true stories I yelled at her at night, tales not diluted by your foolish jests.” My eyes widened with horror. “What did you do with her?” I managed to yell. “I told her the truth to combat your lies. Now, she entertains my shadows. She is bound to me forever – because of you.” “And you,” Candle Face hissed, her face now looming over me, “will join her soon enough. The two of you will scream in unison as the shadows have their way with you. Your secretions will moisten the soil of my underworld, a scent that will bring more shadows your way.” Candle Face moved even closer, her mouth touching my right ear, and whispered, “And your screams, oh, there will be many. The shadows will enjoy every one of them, feeding their appetite. They will turn your disbelief into the deepest despair.” Tears streamed down my face as I realized the depth of my mistake and the end of times was upon me. Candle Face pushed me off the log until I was lying on my back and legs up in the air, unable to resist her strength. With a slow and deliberate motion, Candle Face reached for a large rock nearby, its surface cold and unforgiving. She held it high above her head; laughter filled the air. The rock fell, and darkness descended. But not before feeling the shadows spreading my legs. They couldn’t wait for their turn. The lost soul whispered when she concluded her testimony, asking if she could stay longer. She confided that in my presence, the shadows couldn’t touch her. I remained silent, understanding all too well that any response might only serve to intensify her suffering, as Candle Face would surely punish her further. I hoped she understood my silence. She opened the car door with a heavy heart and slowly walked towards the shadows thrown by the restaurant’s dumpsters and disappeared. I swear I heard the shadows scream in delight when she disappeared. Personal Note to My Readers The young woman who joined me in my car, missing half her head, bore the marks of a tragic death. Her appearance startled me and deeply moved me, compelling me to reach out to you. Her spirit, caught between worlds, tells a story not of serenity but of haunting despair, a soul unable to find the peace it desperately seeks. This emotional encounter has left a lasting impression on me, and I’m asking for your help. As of today, we have managed to assist only four of the twenty-six lost souls. Like the young woman, these spirits need our collective efforts to find the peace that escapes them. Could we, as a community of readers and supernatural enthusiasts, come together to help this lost soul and others like her find the peace they need to leave the shadows that torment them? Through our collective thoughts, attention, and even further investigation into these mysteries, I hope we can help guide them to the rest they deserve. Before I leave, I must mention that the pen pal appears to be Candle Face’s first victim outside of Central Texas, as far as I know. Yet, it’s uncertain when this incident occurred, given that the victims don’t necessarily reach out to me in the order Candle Face targeted them. Could Candle Face be expanding her territory? This idea scares me.

April 15, 2024 After squandering several hours watching Facebook and YouTube videos on my phone, I guiltily set it aside and began my nightly routine, settling on the sofa for sleep. As I walked over to switch off the light, the room plunged into darkness, revealing the silhouette of an unexpected visitor in that fleeting moment of dimness. I froze, eyes locked on the shadowy figure, waiting for it to initiate an encounter. Sensing my hesitation, the figure moved closer and propped against my bar. The dim light didn’t reveal much, but the outline of a long knife protruding from his chest and another from his neck was unmistakable. He caught my wary gaze and said in a blood-soaked, gurgling tone, “Seems I’ve overstayed my welcome in the living world, wouldn’t you agree?” I remained silent, aware that any interaction might further entangle him with Candle Face. He leaned casually against the bar, the knives in his form glinting slightly as he began to recount the story of his death. The morning sun hadn’t yet crept over the horizon when I agreed to join my cousin and his friend on what was promised to be an easy trip for quick money. The plan was simple: drive from Austin to Houston, pick up a load of weapons to be sold back in Austin, and pocket the cash. “No sweat,” my cousin had assured me. We left Austin mid-afternoon on Highway 183. We reached the small town of Luling. We veered off Highway 183 and headed north on Salt Road for several minutes. A gnawing sense of unease took root in my stomach. “We need to pick up our first box of gat here,” my cousin had mentioned, his casual tone doing little to ease the tension that had suddenly filled the car. The house we stopped at was as nondescript as they come, blending into the town’s backdrop. But the moment we entered, I felt the final threads of my trust unravel. The air felt charged, the silence too heavy, as if the very atmosphere was laden with secrets and warnings I couldn’t quite grasp. With every step I took inside the house, the unease grew like a dark cloud descending upon me. The betrayal came swiftly and cruelly without warning. In a blur of motion and confusion, my cousin and his friend turned on me, sealing my fate. The knife held by my cousin struck first, hitting me between my ribs and then into my heart. The second knife found my neck. The last thing I saw was the grim determination in their eyes, a sight that etched a deep sense of betrayal in my dying heart before darkness took me. Buried beneath the house, I found myself in limbo, a ghostly observer of the continuation of events I was no longer physically part of. I watched, powerless, as they drove to Houston to pick up some weapons, then north on Interstate Highway 45 for about 30 minutes. They stopped at an apartment to pick up more weapons. Then, they made their way to Interstate Highway 10 and made a calculated stop in San Antonio to dispose of my belongings before heading back to Austin—a feeble attempt to mislead any investigation into my disappearance. As I lingered in this in-between world under the house, the screams grew louder, a frightening choir that seemed to mock my predicament. It was then that the story took an unexpected turn. The duo received a summons from Candle Face to return to the house. In the haunted gloom of the house under which my body lay, Candle Face awaited with my cousin and his accomplice. As she began to speak, the air crackled with an overwhelming surge of evil energy. Her voice was a haunting melody of menace and mockery, a testament to the supernatural forces at play. “So, you thought you could decide his fate without consulting me?” Candle Face’s cold and mocking laughter echoed through the house’s shadows. “You two, sharing the same name, emboldened by a bond you thought granted you invincibility.” My cousin, trying to mask his fear with braveness, replied, “We did what we thought was necessary. He wouldn’t have believed in you anyway.” “Belief,” Candle Face mused, her voice dripping with amusement. “Such a fragile thing, yet it holds the key to power. And you,” she turned her unseen gaze to where I stood in my ghostly form, “you doubted my existence.” I found my voice, “I never believed in the paranormal. I believed in what I could see and touch.” “And yet, here you are, touched by the very shadows you denied,” Candle Face retorted, her laughter filling the room once more. “You see, your disbelief has brought you into my world. And these two,” she gestured to my cousin and his friend, “have unwittingly served me despite their ignorance.” With a hint of respect in her tone, she explained that the town and the house were ancient sites of power, chosen for their connection to the space between worlds. The betrayal, orchestrated on such sacred ground, had inadvertently fulfilled a summoning ritual. Turning to my cousin and his friend, she continued, “You share a name I know all too well. It’s no coincidence, you know. It’s a marker, a sign of potential I seek in my servants.” They exchanged uneasy glances, the reality of their situation settling in. They had become pawns in a game much larger than they had ever imagined. Candle Face’s voice softened, a dangerous sign. “But you have done well, bringing him to me. For that, you shall be rewarded. Go forth and find more like him, those who doubt, those who deny. Bring them to me, and you shall find yourselves in my favor.” As they nodded, a silent agreement sealed in fear and ambition, Candle Face turned back to me. “As for you, consider this a lesson in belief. Some truths lie beyond the grave, beyond the reach of mortal understanding. Your journey ends here, but theirs,” she glanced at my cousin and his accomplice, “is just beginning.” With those final words, the worst pain I have ever felt overtook my soul, and I felt the ties to the physical world dissolve. I now lay with many others like me under the floorboards. Now bound to Candle Face’s will, the two men left the house with a new purpose, leaving behind the darkness and the cries that echoed long after their departure. They had unwittingly entered a pact with a being as mysterious as the night itself, driven by the promise of power and the fear of Candle Face. Yet, their journey had taken a turn they could never have anticipated, trapping them in a web of evil far beyond their wildest nightmares. In the quiet that followed, the house above my body became a tomb, a testament to the thin layer between belief and disbelief. Candle Face, a guardian of that threshold, continued to lurk in the shadows, her presence a constant reminder of the power of the unseen forces that shape our destinies. As the story of my life concluded, the stories of my cousin and his friend were beginning to unfold under Candle Face’s watchful eye. Bound by their name and actions, they ventured into the darkness, tasked with trapping others into the same fate that killed me. But in their hearts lingered a seed of doubt, a silent question of whether they, too, might one day find themselves set in a trap of their own making, victims of the very disbelief that had led them to this path. My nocturnal visitor shared a sly smile, pushed himself from the bar, and walked back into the shadow from where he came while the two knife handles bounced slightly with each step. Before disappearing completely, he looked back at me with that same sly smile and said, “Good luck, Ray.” Personal Note to My Readers Lately, there’s been a surge in the number of firsts in my nocturnal visitor’s testimonies. This particular account was strikingly detailed about geographical locations, as the victim recounted his journey from Austin to Luling, then to Houston and San Antonio. He specifically mentioned roads like Highway 183 and Interstate Highways 10 and 45. Interestingly, the spirit referred to a “Salt Road” in Luling, a detail that proves puzzling since no such road exists according to Google Maps. There is, however, a “Salt Flat Road.” This discrepancy suggests a deliberate obscuring of the actual events and locations or a common issue with posthumous testimonies where details can blur from memory. The victim’s revelations about the setting of his demise are particularly alarming. He mentioned that Candle Face, the vengeful entity, declared the town and house “ancient sites of power”—a statement laden with threatening implications. Furthermore, he disclosed that his body lies with many others under the floorboards, hinting at a gruesome history of killings. This raises several urgent questions: What’s the nature of this sacred ground? Could this house be the site of multiple unsolved mysteries? What’s Candle Face’s connection to this town and house? The identity of the killers is another disturbing layer. According to the spirit, his cousin and his friend, who curiously share the same name, were responsible for his death. Intriguingly, the spirit noted Candle Face’s particular fondness for this name, suggesting a possible predestined or coded selection. This testimony not only adds a complex layer to our understanding of ghost stories but also challenges us to consider the intersections of memory, history, geography, and the supernatural. It invites us to investigate the relationship between Candle Face and the mysterious events on Salt Flat Road. As we gather and dissect these testimonies, let us remain vigilant in our pursuit of truth, however elusive it may appear amidst the shadows of the past.

April 14, 2024 In the traumatic continuation of “Candle Face Victim # 13: Beneath the Surface: The Drowning Ghost’s Story,” my unsettling encounters with the spirit world continue. Today, intriguing feedback on my journal entry has deepened the mystery surrounding my nocturnal visitor from late December 2023 and again on February 13, 2024. The commenter believes that Victim # 13 is a man from news stories from the late 1990s who vanished while boating with his children in Lake Travis near Austin, TX. He remembers these news stories from his high school years at Lake Travis High School. This mention struck a nerve, compelling me to search online for “missing person Lake Travis late 1990s.” I discovered a KXAN article titled “Unsolved: The Mysteries Lurking in Lake Travis,” which detailed several drownings, including that of William Crumpacker, who disappeared in 1998 while camping with his sons. This detail resonated deeply because ‘William’ is the name the spirit used in a ghost story he narrated during a boating trip, the same night he encountered Candle Face, leading to his tragic drowning. Intrigued by these uncanny parallels, I dug deeper and learned that William Crumpacker was a Dell marketing manager who went missing under mysterious circumstances after a late-night swim from his boat in Little Devil’s Cove on Lake Travis while his children slept onboard. His body was never found. In late December 2023, a spirit matching William’s description visited me, recounting his tragic end in Lake Travis. I initially neglected to record his visit in my journal. However, after a startling second encounter in February 2024—where the spirit rebuked my inattention by striking me twice and vomiting in my mouth—I diligently documented his story. The disturbing details of the first visit were shared in my January 11, 2024, interview with Beyond Believe Talk. Now, as each night arrives, urging me to believe and respect the stories that waft through the shadows of my home, I find myself pondering the identity of this persistent spirit. Could it truly be William Crumpacker? And if so, what steps should I take next? I'm at a loss without guidance from the spirits and direct communication thwarted by Candle Face’s punitive measures. As I brace for whatever may come next, I reach out to you, my readers, for guidance. Have any of you encountered Candle Face or spirits demanding acknowledgment? Your stories and insights could illuminate the path as I navigate this shadowed journey.

April 12, 2024 The deeply unsettling real-world experiences of Arthur Mills compel reflection, even for the most steadfast skeptics. Discover the frightful ghost known as Candle Face, her hauntingly cruel antics, and the way she metamorphosed a boy’s childhood into a ceaseless dread in The Empty Lot Next Door.

SPOILER ALERT: This journal entry contains themes and insights from The Empty Lot Next Door. If you’re trying to avoid spoilers, it’s advisable not to read further until you’ve finished the book. Reading this journal entry may reveal important plot details you’d rather discover alone. April 7, 2024 Did the treehouse sketch in the book The Empty Lot Next Door resemble the real treehouse in the empty lot? No, the treehouse didn’t resemble the sketch crafted by the Indian artist to whom I tried to explain. His rendition was idealistic and spooky, somehow fitting the mood of my memory even though it didn’t mirror reality. It was good, so I accepted it. Our treehouse was a stage, sturdy and flat on the ground, bordered by the towering bark of the old oak tree. It wasn’t a sanctuary amidst leaves and branches but rather a grounded platform. Only a single 4x4 board, weathered yet firm, bridged between two limbs above. From it, a rope dangled, swinging freely in the idle breeze. We used it to swing, to imagine. Ricky used it for his stories and his illusions. Neighborhood children, eyes wide with wonder, sat at the base, enveloped in Ricky’s stories of magical adventures with his unseen companion, Griffin. His words, a mixture of ghastly stories and fanciful journeys, stirred visions in youthful hearts and minds that rivaled the stories of Mark Twain’s Huckleberry Finn. That tree and the treehouse, seated in the empty lot, was a canvas for memories, some warm and cherished, others like a biting wind that warned of darker times. My childhood navigated through its branches, the echoes of laughter and shrieks of fright entwining permanently within its ancient branches, both beautiful and haunting simultaneously.