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  • Identified? - Candle Face Victim #40 and 41: Haunted by Voices, Bound by Guilt

    November 7, 2024 A little over a month ago, I shared a journal entry about a visit from two lost souls—a couple who appeared in my living room one restless night when I couldn’t sleep. The man was initially hesitant, but they eventually shared their tragic story. They described how they once lived peacefully on a ranch east of Austin, Texas, only for their lives to spiral into chaos when the woman began hearing tormenting voices from Candle Face after losing faith in her. These voices were relentless, pushing her to the brink, until her husband, in a desperate attempt to end her suffering, took her life with a gunshot. Their story took an even darker turn when the husband himself was shot by their son, who acted out of anger and misunderstanding, convinced that his father was abandoning him. The couple’s remains were buried together, their story lost to time, as Candle Face held them in her lair, ensuring that their torment continued. Unlike many previous visits, this couple’s story didn’t feel like a simple recounting of their suffering—it carried specific details that felt like clues. I felt compelled to dig deeper, hoping to see if historical records could corroborate their story. With that in mind, I turned to research. The couple had mentioned a ranch east of Austin, the man’s Mexican heritage, and a death involving a firearm. To start, I used Google and tried search terms like “elderly couple disappearance Texas ranch,” “missing couple gunshot ranch Austin,” and “Texas couple killed.” At first, my search results led to dead ends, filled with unrelated cases, but then something caught my eye. An article described an unsolved case from 1976 about an elderly couple who vanished from their ranch under circumstances strikingly similar to what the lost souls had told me. Comparing the Two Stories: The Lost Souls : During our encounter, the elderly man confessed that he ended his wife’s life to free her from the torment Candle Face inflicted on her. He admitted to taking drastic measures to cover up the evidence of what he had done. He specifically mentioned that the bathroom door had a bullet hole in it, which he couldn’t repair, so he took it off its hinges and hid it in the barn under a pile of hay. He also revealed how he was shot by their son, who believed, in a fit of rage, that his father was abandoning him. Their son then buried their bodies together in South Texas. The Article : The article detailed an unsolved case involving an elderly couple who disappeared from their rural ranch east of Austin in 1976. Investigators found signs of violence: a bullet hole in a window, bloodstains, and most notably, a missing bedroom door that was later discovered hidden in a barn on the property. Authorities speculated on various motives, from family conflict to outside involvement, but the couple’s bodies were never found, leaving the case unsolved. Key Similarities: Location & Background : Both the couple who visited me and the couple in the article lived on a ranch east of Austin. In both accounts, the husband had roots in Mexico. Unusual Circumstances of Death : Both stories involve a missing door and evidence of gunshots. The man who visited me explicitly mentioned hiding a door with a bullet hole in the barn, while the article noted that investigators found a hidden door in the barn during their search. Family Conflict : In both stories, the son played a tragic role, acting in anger. Torment by Voices : The woman in both accounts seemed to be driven to her breaking point by cruel, incessant voices. These voices could well have been Candle Face’s way of breaking down her will, forcing her husband into a mercy killing. Key Differences: Confession vs. Theories : The couple who visited me shared their story as a direct confession, filling in details that the investigators could only speculate on. The article, on the other hand, presented theories based on limited evidence, leaving the story unclear. Direct Contact : The lost souls came to me directly, seemingly to set the record straight and share their side of the story. In contrast, the article is pieced together from fragmented details and speculation from the authorities, without the personal clarity I received during the encounter. Despite the similarities, I must emphasize that I could be wrong. While the parallels between the lost souls’ story and the historical case are striking, it’s possible that I’m misinterpreting their messages or that Candle Face’s manipulations have distorted the details. For that reason, I can’t definitively say that the couple who visited me and the individuals in the article are one and the same. Out of respect for any surviving family members who may still be searching for answers, I won’t reveal their names here. But you can do your own research. My goal is to honor the spirits who reach out to me and share their stories in a way that respects their pain, without causing further harm. Whether these two stories are truly connected or not, what remains clear is that these souls are reaching out for closure. And as Candle Face continues to kill, I’ll continue to listen, to give them a voice, and to fight against the evil she spreads. Key To Understanding To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, 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 memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills

  • Candle Face Victim #44: The Lost Soul from Bryan, Texas

    November 2, 2024 I had been practicing with the crystal ball again, trying to refine my focus. Usually, it’s just shadows or flickers of movement—nothing clear, nothing tangible, except for Candle Face’s image those two times. But tonight was different. Tonight, the glass seemed almost alive, swirling with an energy I hadn’t felt before. As I peered deeper into the mist, something began to take shape. At first, it was just a faint outline, like a smudge on the surface. But slowly, it sharpened into the unmistakable image of a young girl’s face. I blinked, thinking my eyes were playing tricks on me, but the vision only grew clearer. She looked right at me, her brown eyes wide and filled with desperation. The connection was so vivid and real that I lost myself in it for a moment. I could see her lips move, forming words I couldn’t hear. Instinctively, I pulled back from the crystal ball. But as I turned, she was no longer in the glass. She was standing in the corner of the dining room as if she had stepped right out of the vision. She was around 15 or 16 years old, Hispanic, and on the shorter side—about 5’3” with a small frame. Her clothes were torn and dirty, her face streaked with tears. Her neck was severely red and bruised. There was something raw and vulnerable about her. I spoke softly, not wanting to startle her. “You came through the crystal ball?” She nodded slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. I could tell she was still gathering the courage to speak, so I waited. “How can I help you?” I asked. She took a shaky breath and began to tell me her story: “I was from Bryan, Texas,” she said. “It all started when I got mixed up with some friends who told me about—her.” She glanced nervously at the crystal ball on my desk, as though it might bring Candle Face back to listen. “They didn’t call her Candle Face,” she continued, shaking her head. “To them, she was just a girl ghost—someone who died in a fire and came back to help those who needed it. My friends said she only asked for one thing in return—faith. If you believed in her, really believed, she’d solve your problems. At least, that’s what they told me.” Her hands trembled, and she clasped them together to steady herself. “At first, I thought it was just a joke, a way to pass the time. But some of my friends started seeing things, feeling her presence. One of them swore that she appeared in her room one night, promising to protect her from bad things.” Her voice cracked on the last words, and she looked down, her eyes filling with tears. I waited, giving her the space to continue. “They invited me to one of their meetings,” she said. “I didn’t think much of it—just a bunch of us in a friend’s garage, lighting candles, talking about how she could help us if we had faith. But soon, it got serious. They started saying we had to prove our loyalty to her, that she needed our devotion. I tried to back out, but by then, it was too late.” She paused as if reliving the moment. “One night, they took me to this old, abandoned house outside town. They said it was a test of faith. I thought it was just another game, but when I got there, there were four men I’d never seen before. They were older, rough, and they had this look in their eyes.” Her voice became hoarse, barely audible. “They said I needed to prove I truly believed in her. That’s when they grabbed me. The first man forced me down and climbed on top of me, pressing his hands around my neck, just for ten seconds. Then another took his turn. They kept going, making a game out of it. Ten seconds each, then longer. Twenty seconds. Thirty. Each time they let go, they laughed, like it was some kind of sick joke. I could barely breathe, and everything was starting to fade.” She brought her hands to her throat, as if feeling their grip all over again. “I thought it was over, that I was fixin’ to die. But something in me refused to give up. I tried to fight back. I clawed at the man on top of me, trying to pull his hands away. That’s when he saw it—the tiny cross tattoo on my right hand.” Her eyes widened, her voice quickening. “His face changed. It was like he’d seen a ghost. He let go of my neck and stumbled back, like he was struck by something. ‘Oh no, not a cross,’ he said, his voice shaking. And just like that, all four of them dropped to the ground, gasping for air.” I leaned in closer, captivated by her story. “What happened next?” I asked. She drew in a shaky breath. “I stood up, still gasping for air, and held out my hand toward them. I don’t know where the words came from, but I shouted, ‘In the name of Jesus, I demand that you leave me alone!’ They kept writhing on the ground like they were in pain. For a second, I thought it had worked.” A bitter smile twisted her lips. “But then, they started laughing. It was this awful, hollow sound. They stood up like nothing had happened. One of them sneered at me and said, ‘You really thought we were in pain? You thought your little cross would save you? Only in the movies, sweetheart.’” “Before I could run, they were on me again. And this time, they didn’t stop. They strangled me until everything went black.” I watched her carefully as she finished her story, her form flickering slightly as though she were fading. “How can I help you?” I asked again, my voice softer now, almost pleading. Her eyes darted around the dining room as the lights in the kitchen flickered. She stepped closer, her voice barely more than a whisper. “You, you can’t help me,” she said, her voice breaking. “But maybe you can help the others. I was the last…” My heart sank. “The last of what?” “They, they know you’re helping us,” she said, her voice cracking. “But they don’t care. It’s all… it’s all just…” Before she could finish, her form suddenly stiffened, her eyes widening in terror. She let out a strangled gasp, as if an invisible force had tightened around her throat. I reached out instinctively, but she flickered violently and vanished, leaving only a cold, oppressive silence in her wake. I stood there, my hand still outstretched. Whatever she was about to reveal, it was something I wasn’t meant to know. Just as I turned to leave, I heard a faint “ Hide.” The lights flickered once, and then, just as quickly, they returned to a dim, steady glow. I was left standing alone, wondering what it meant. Personal Note to My Readers (November 4, 2024) I’ve been reflecting on my encounter with the lost soul who appeared to me through the crystal ball. There’s a lot I’m still trying to piece together, but her words have been haunting me ever since. She told me, “You can’t help me.”  I keep asking myself what she meant by that. Was she saying it because she truly believed I was powerless to change her fate? Or was she warning me that something—or someone—was making it impossible for me to help her? Or she feels that I’m not capable of helping her since I don’t have a good record with helping the lost souls since I’ve only identified six or so of the 42 lost souls who have come to me. It felt like she was resigned to her fate, almost like she had accepted that whatever had happened to her was beyond saving. But why would Candle Face allow her to come to me at all if I couldn’t do anything to help? Perhaps I’ve been allowed to see these souls not to save them, but to witness their torment. And then there’s her statement, “I was the last.”  That line keeps replaying in my mind. Does it mean she was the final soul to be allowed through to me? Is Candle Face closing the door on these visits? If that’s true, then why? Has something changed on the other side? Or was it simply a warning that from now on, any attempt to help would come with even greater risks? The more I think about it, the more it feels like this was meant to leave me questioning everything I’ve been trying to do. But what haunts me most is that faint whisper I heard at the end— "Hide.” Who said it? Was it the lost soul, trying to protect me in her last moments? Or could it have been something, or someone else, reaching out through the crystal ball? And who was the warning really for? Was it directed at me, urging me to prepare for something coming my way? Or was it meant for other lost souls trying to reach me? Every encounter I’ve had so far has left me with more questions than answers, but this one felt different. The way she vanished, the flickering lights—it’s as if something or someone is trying to cut off my connection to these lost souls. Maybe the whisper was a plea, or maybe it was a command. But one thing is certain: I can’t ignore it. If any of you have thoughts, ideas, or even your own experiences that might shed light on this, I’d be grateful to hear them. For now, all I can do is stay vigilant, try to understand the warnings, and continue searching for answers. Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that the truth—whatever it is—won’t reveal itself easily. Thank you for reading, and as always, stay safe. Key To Understanding To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, 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 memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills

  • Closer but Still Unknown as Shadowed Figures Emerge

    October 29, 2024 Today, I returned to the crystal ball, hoping for another glimpse of the shadowed figures I’d seen a few days ago. There’s something about that dark, enclosed space—its vague familiarity mixed with the stillness of those shadow figures. I wanted to see if I could draw the scene into sharper focus, even just slightly, to understand it better. It didn’t take long before the shapes started to appear again. This time, the figures were clearer, though still obscured by the same murky haze. I could make out the barest hint of facial features—eyes glinting faintly, shadows that suggested the contours of noses, and the outlines of mouths that seemed closed, unmoving. It was enough to recognize that they weren’t completely expressionless, yet whatever emotions they might have were hard to read. As I watched, I noticed something else: slight, almost imperceptible movements. An arm shifted here, a leg adjusted there, but these movements were slow, barely noticeable, like they were being played in slow motion. It was as though they were caught in the middle of a thought, just on the edge of moving freely but held back by something. I kept my focus steady, hoping more details might emerge, but that strange, heavy stillness remained. I wonder if they’re aware of me watching, if these delicate movements mean they’re starting to respond somehow, or maybe I just didn’t notice the movements the first time. Who are they? Now I have a new quest. Maybe next time, with enough patience, I’ll see more. Key To Understanding To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, 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 memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills

  • An Unclear Vision of Figures in the Crystal Ball

    October 27, 2024 Today, I spent some time with the crystal ball, practicing during the day. Working in daylight feels different—less intense than my usual nighttime sessions, which makes it easier to focus on technique without getting caught up in the energy around it. My goal was simple: to see what, if anything, would come through on its own, without reaching out to the lost souls. After a few minutes, shapes began to emerge in the crystal ball. At first, they were just shadows, faint and shifting, until they began to settle into a scene that felt oddly familiar. It looked like a dark, enclosed space, with sloped walls and rough wooden beams faintly visible in the background. The ceiling seemed high in some places and low in others. A layer of dust hovered in the air, catching whatever small light and reflecting it into the crystal ball. Scattered within the space were a few shadowed figures, some standing against the slanted boards, others sitting or crouched in the darker corners. They were all still, either looking down or straight ahead, as though waiting for something. I tried to focus on their faces, hoping for even a hint of a feature that might reveal more, but everything stayed blurred, their faces shifting or fading each time I thought I’d caught a glimpse of an eye or a mouth. As I continued to look, I realized that none of them were moving, not even slightly. It was as if they’d been frozen in place. I wondered why they were there or what kept them so still, but the crystal ball offered no further details, only silence. I kept my focus on the figures, letting the shapes settle and fade, hoping that something more might reveal itself with time. I felt a strange pull to keep looking, as if the scene wanted me to remember something, but the harder I focused, the hazier the details became. Eventually, the figures dissolved back into the glass, leaving me with nothing but my own reflection staring back. I want to try again tomorrow, in the daytime, of course. Maybe, with more practice, the images will become clearer, like the gradual sharpening of my connection with the lost souls. For now, though, these shapes are just shadows in a space that feels both distant and close, waiting for me to understand. Key To Understanding To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, 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 memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills

  • Candle Face Victim #42: The Crown of Bone

    October 10, 2024 I’ve had some success with my newfound mediumship and remote viewing skills lately. Just a few days ago, I was able to “hear” voices in the spirit of an elderly woman’s head from over 50 years ago. It may not be perfect, but it’s a start. For example, I heard the voices mention a knife, but a gun killed her. Did I not hear it correctly, or was I just interpreting it wrong? For now, I believe I heard the word “knife,” but I wonder if the voices were lying to me, or at least trying to manipulate me. I don’t know yet. Hopefully, I can figure it all out. I sure wish I had some brave and trustworthy psychics and mediums out there who could help me. I feel all alone in this investigation. I hope I can enlist readers to help, but competing for their attention is hard work. Millions of books and websites are out there, all trying to grab their share of the audience. I’m just one person, but I’m on an important mission to find the right readers—readers who can help solve these cases and aid the lost souls. Sorry, I digressed. The lights flickered as I sat at the dining room table, pondering these thoughts while staring deep into the crystal ball around 2:00 a.m. Flickering lights seem to be the norm these days—a sign that lost souls are about to visit. I was right. I felt a couple of pokes on the back of my right shoulder. I jumped a little, despite knowing what was happening. I turned to my right, but nothing was there. Then I turned to my left, and before I could truly see anything, two hands grabbed my shoulders and shook me hard. I heard a loud “Boo!” I turned further around and saw a young black woman, probably around 25 years old, standing slightly behind me, laughing. “I always wanted to do that,” she said, still chuckling. “That’s what ghosts are supposed to do, right?” “I guess,” I said, half-laughing, trying to hide the fact that I was actually startled. She pulled out the chair next to me and sat down. She seemed so comfortable, as if she’d done this before, or at least like she was comfortable with me. She had a nice smile and bright teeth, but her skin looked as though it had been sapped of all color, with a faint bluish tint. Her eyes, though, filled with laughter. But what stood out the most was that she had been completely scalped. Not a single hair or skin on her head—just exposed skull, with blood still flowing down her face. Her yellow shirt was almost completely soaked in blood. “What do you think of my hairstyle?” she asked, pretending to comb through non-existent hair. “I like it,” I said, trying to remain calm. She laughed, clearly understanding my discomfort. “I’m here to ask you to help me find my body and figure out how I was killed. I was too high on drugs the day it happened, so I don’t remember much. The word in Candle Face’s lair is that you can see the past.” She stressed the words “The word in Candle Face’s lair,” almost mockingly. Before she could say anything else, I interrupted. “No, I can’t do that. I’ve been practicing, but I can’t do it for real yet. “But Ray, you must try. Look into your crystal ball and do your thing.” Reluctantly, I looked down into the crystal ball. I felt like I was being put on the spot, asked to try something I wasn’t even sure I could do. Her large smile had faded into a sad frown. I think I saw tears mixed with the blood running down her face. Now, I had to try. “As a matter of fact,” she added, “today is the anniversary of my death. That’s why I’m here. My birthday was just a few days ago, and now this.” “I’m so sorry. Celebrating a birthday, then dying a few days later. Happy birthday,” I responded. “Thank you,” she responded, but her focus was on my crystal ball. She watched me intently as I sat there with the crystal ball. My hands hovered over the ball, feeling a faint warmth, though I knew it was just my nerves. I put my hands down, thinking I must look ridiculous, like I was in some movie, acting out a scene. I stared deep into the crystal ball, focusing on the energy around me, trying to connect with whatever traces of her past still lingered. I followed standard remote viewing practices: grounding myself, clearing my mind, and letting the sensations and images come naturally. In mediumship, you open yourself up to the spirit’s energy, allowing them to guide you to the memories or traces they leave behind. The key is to trust that what you see—no matter how fragmented—holds the truth. The flickering of the lights in the kitchen slowed, and for a moment, the dining room fell into a creepy calm. I began to see flashes, not in the crystal ball, but in my mind—disorderly images, unclear but connected to her story. A park bench, the flash of metal, muffled voices. Nothing was clear, but one thing was certain: this was more than just a simple death. Her end was brutal, and those involved didn’t want her to be found. “I see something,” I began. “It’s not clear, but it feels like you were in a public place, maybe a park.” She nodded slightly, “That sounds right. But who? Why?” “I’m not sure yet, but I’ll keep trying,” I said. “This isn’t easy to piece together, but I’ll do what I can.” Her expression softened, and for a moment, I could see that behind the blood and pain, there was hope in me. Before I could say another word, the room grew hot—so hot it felt like the sun’s surface, right in my dining room. I turned, and there she was—Candle Face. Her charred features looked darker than usual, and her hollow eye sockets glowed faintly as if the fire within her still burned. The lost soul beside me looked terrified, her hands trembling. Candle Face’s eyes locked onto the woman’s forehead. “What happened to you?” Candle Face asked in a low, mocking voice. “Looks like you have been scalped.” She circled the dining room table slowly, like a predator toying with its prey. The woman didn’t answer, frozen. Without warning, Candle Face pulled a knife from her cloak, its blade gleaming in the dim light. She leaned in, tracing an old scar just below her exposed skull with the tip of the blade. The woman whimpered, her eyes wide with terror, unable to move. “You know what is funny?” Candle Face asked. “You came here to ask Ray what happened to you? I can tell you. I was the one who scalped you. But it was not enough, was it?” She moved swiftly, and in one horrifying motion, she scalped the woman again, this time taking the top of her skull off, exposing the brain. Blood gushed as Candle Face held the bloody top of the skull in her hands, inspecting it as if it were a trophy. The woman screamed in pain as her brain was exposed. “She thought she could betray me,” Candle Face scoffed while facing me. “She dared to speak my name, to reveal my secret, thinking she could escape. But no one escapes me.” I watched in disbelief as Candle Face took the woman’s skull and placed it atop her own head like a grisly crown, the woman’s blood now dripping down Candle Face’s face but boiling away within seconds. “This,” she said with a twisted smile, “is what happens when you speak my name to non-believers.” And that’s when it hit me—this woman was killed because she had learned the truth about Candle Face. She had tried to warn others, but Candle Face got to her first. Her death wasn’t just another random murder; it was a message, a reminder that Candle Face’s secrets weren’t to be exposed. The female lost soul disappeared, and Candle Face remained with her new crown. She returned her gaze to me, her hollow eye sockets narrowing. “So,” she scoffed, “you think you are getting better at this little ‘mediumship’ act of yours? How adorable.” She paced around the dining room. “You think you can peek into my past? You think you are the first to try?” She paused, leaning in so close I could feel the heat radiating from her charred skin. “That woman thought the same thing,” she said, gesturing to where the lost soul had sat moments before. “She thought she could use her ‘abilities’ to fight me too, to dig into secrets that do not belong to her. And look what it got her—scalped, mutilated, and now a crown for me.” Candle Face ran her fingers on top of her new crown, smirking as she adjusted it on her head. “You see, Ray, my past is not for the likes of you. It is for my children. Non-believers, well, you saw what happened to them. My children know what to tell and what not to tell.” “You could end up just like her,” she yelled, her voice hotter. “Scalped, gutted, and left for dead. You are playing with fire, Ray. Look into my past, and I promise you will burn.” I clenched my fists under the table, forcing myself to stay calm. “I’ve heard these empty threats from you before,” I said, my voice steady. “But here I am, still here.” Her smile faded, replaced by a look of fury. “You think you are safe, don’t you? You think you are untouchable. But you are wrong, Ray. So very wrong. I have not killed you yet because you are my ultimate prize. Do you have any idea how long I have waited for this? How long I have wanted to rip you apart, piece by piece, until there is no memory of your existence?” She circled the table again, slower this time, her footsteps echoing in the quiet room. “But I am patient,” she continued. “Oh, I am so patient. And when the time comes, when you finally slip, I will be there. I will be the last thing you see, Ray. And I will enjoy every second of it.” For a moment, neither of us spoke. The tension between us thickened. “You want to know why no one from the paranormal community wants to help you?” she asked, breaking the silence. “It is because of me. They know what I can do. They have seen it. That is why they stay away. They know my power and are smart enough to keep their distance.” She leaned in again, her face inches from mine. “You should be wary of your little ‘abilities,’ Ray. Keep looking into my past, and you may not like what you find. It is not just the lost souls you are dealing with. You are in my world, and in my world, the rules are different.” I stared back at her. “Is that all you’ve got?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “More threats? More warnings? You’ve tried to scare me before, and guess what? I’m still here. I’ve fought bigger demons than you.” Her hollow eye sockets flashed with anger. “Bigger demons?” she spat. “You have no idea what I am, Ray. But you will. Soon enough, you will.” For a moment, I thought she might attack—her body tensed, her hand gripping the knife tightly—but then, something changed. She straightened up, a strange smile creeping across her face. “You know,” she said, her tone almost casual, “you are not as far along in your mediumship as you think you are. You are tapping into something much darker, much deeper than you realize. And that little crystal ball of yours? It is a window. But it is not just a window for you to look through, Ray. It is a window for me, too.” I blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?” She laughed again, that same mocking sound. “Oh, you will find out soon enough. Keep using your abilities. Keep pushing yourself. The more you try to see into my past, the closer you bring me to you. Every time you look, every time you connect with one of my victims, you open the door a little wider. And one day, I will step through for the last time and take you with me.” She took a step back, her eyes gleaming with twisted delight. “So keep practicing, Ray. Keep looking. Just remember—whatever you are staring at is staring back at you.” With that, she turned and walked toward the shadowy corner of the room. Just before disappearing, she paused and looked over her shoulder. “I will be seeing you soon.” And then she was gone. As terrifying as Candle Face is, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not alone in this fight. Yes, she’s powerful, but I believe there’s strength in numbers, in collaboration. The paranormal community has faced evil before, and together, along with my readers, we might just stand a chance against her. If there are brave souls out there who still believe in fighting for what’s right, I welcome your help. This battle isn’t just mine—it belongs to all of us. Personal Note to My Readers I sat there for a moment, my mind racing. What had she meant? A window for her, too? Was it possible that my mediumship and remote viewing were somehow connected to her, that I was giving her more power by using my abilities? This would explain why I can’t seem to see beyond her victims. Could Candle Face, the shadows, and even the lost souls be watching me through the crystal ball? Is that how they know my every move? Once again, I felt like I had failed. I wanted to help, but instead, I hurt another lost soul. Her trust in me was misplaced, and I worry that my attempts are doing more harm than good. How can I protect these lost souls when I can’t even find their remains? To date, I’ve only identified 6 or 42 lost souls. Maybe I need to focus on how to protect them more than trying to identify them. I must find a way to shield them from Candle Face, even if I can’t yet give them the peace they seek. And here I am again—stuck between hope and hopelessness. Every time I feel like I’m making progress, Candle Face rips it away from me. She shatters every small victory, every flicker of hope, leaving me feeling more helpless than before. It’s exhausting. One minute, I think I’m getting somewhere, and the next, she drags me back into a great depression. I can’t keep up with the emotional whiplash anymore. I’ve been here before. I’ve wondered if I’m making a difference or just playing into her hands. Am I really helping these souls, or am I just another pawn in her twisted game? Am I in her hell, just like her victims, being tortured slowly, methodically, before she takes me too? But then, something snapped in me tonight. I surprised myself. My fists were clenched under the table, not trembling like they used to when Candle Face visited me as a child. Back then, I was frozen in fear, unable to move, barely able to breathe when she came near. But tonight, I stood up to her—or at least I tried to. I can’t believe I told Candle Face that I’ve fought bigger demons than her. Of course, that’s not true. I’ve never faced anything like her in my life. Maybe I said it out of fear, trying to sound tough. Maybe I said it because, deep down, I needed to convince myself that I can beat her. I don’t know. But I said it, and I still can’t believe those words came out of my mouth. Kind of funny, though. I don’t know if I can win this battle. But I can’t give up on these lost souls, no matter how many times Candle Face tries to break me. I have to keep fighting, for them, for the truth, for something bigger than my own survival. I might be in her hell, being tortured just like her victims before she takes them, but I’m not ready to give in. Not yet. Candle Face can threaten me all she wants, but I’ve seen what she does, and I’m still here. There must be a reason why I’m still here. I know Candle Face wants me to feel isolated, to think I’m in this alone. But I don’t believe that. I’ve always trusted in the power of collaboration. She’s strong, but I know there are others out there in the paranormal community and my readers just as strong, who aren’t afraid to face her, even though I know I must carry the bulk of the work. I welcome any help. Together, I believe we can free these lost souls—no matter how powerful Candle Face thinks she is. I have to keep going. No matter what Candle Face has planned for me. Key To Understanding To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, 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 memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills

  • Candle Face Victims #40 and #41: Haunted by Voices, Bound by Guilt

    October 6, 2024 The late-night Dallas Cowboys and Pittsburgh Steelers game had me all wound up, so I couldn’t go to sleep. I laid down, but nothing. I tried counting sheep, reading a terms and conditions agreement word-for-word, and even watching a video on different types of rocks, but still nothing. Not even a hint of drowsiness. So, I decided to sit up and do some breathing exercises to clear my mind. I figured since I couldn’t sleep, I might as well try to call on a lost soul—even though I had never attempted to call one forward before. They come when they want to, not when summoned. I had learned some basic mediumship techniques online, piecing together a method that seemed promising. After making a few adjustments to suit my style, I prepared myself for the session. First, I visualized a white light enveloping the room—a common protective measure recommended for these kinds of spiritual encounters. Next, I focused on deepening my breathing, counting to five on each inhale and exhale. With my eyes closed, I mentally projected an invitation, almost like throwing a lasso of energy into the void, and then waited, imagining that energy spreading out and pulling in anyone willing to communicate. I’d read that summoning spirits could be dangerous, but I felt an odd sense of calm. Maybe it was because I didn’t think it would actually work. Or maybe it was because, deep down, I wanted to see if I could do it. After about ten minutes, a change occurred. The shadows in the living room began to darken, thickening like smoke, and the lights in the kitchen started flickering. And then, almost as if crossing an invisible threshold, an old man stepped into my living room. He took a few cautious steps toward me, then stopped. He turned back to the shadow and made a beckoning motion, as if inviting someone to follow him. An elderly woman then stepped out of the shadow and joined him. They both walked toward me, stopping when I scooted over to make space for them to sit. “We’re fine right here,” the old man said in a slight Spanish accent, his voice steady but soft. “How can I help y’all?” I asked, keeping my voice gentle. “Ray, I want you to listen to our story. And only listen, take no action.” “OK,” I responded. I wanted to ask why they would not want me to take action, but I figured I’d figure it out while they spoke. “We used to live in a small town east of Austin nearly 50 years ago. I’m originally from Mexico but moved to Texas when I was a young man, around 20 years old. I made my money as a ranch hand until I saved enough to buy my own ranch and hire my own ranch hands. I remember living in Mexico and hearing stories of a once-beautiful little girl who was killed in a fire and now roams the earth looking to be remembered because people have forgotten her. My friends and I used to tell stories about her, likely mostly made up, in an attempt to ‘one-up’ each other. But in time, we didn’t know what was real and what was made up. Ultimately, we all believed, and that’s what counts.” “Is the little girl you’re talking about Candle Face?” I asked. “Yes,” he answered in a matter-of-fact tone, as if I didn’t even need to ask. “Is Candle Face from Mexico?” “You tell me, Mr. Investigator,” he responded with a nasty tone, while the lady nudged him. “Be nice,” she said. “We’re here to tell you about the circumstances of our deaths.” “OK, tell me whatever you want to tell me.” “I met my wife about 20 years after I settled in Texas from Mexico. She wasn’t my first wife, and I have children from previous marriages. I talked a lot about my time in Mexico to my wife, notably stories about who you call ‘Candle Face.’ At first, my wife didn’t believe, but she came around. For the next few decades, things went well. We kept our faith in her, and she made sure our health was strong. We even talked to people in town about her loving ways, but most would just laugh. We were the crazies down the dirt road. Anyway, my wife started to lose her way and stopped talking about her; she didn’t even want to listen to my stories anymore. Eventually, my wife started to hear noises in her head, which turned into voices. These voices…” I interrupted him and asked her to continue with the story. She looked at me and smiled. “Thank you, Ray. At least someone lets me talk.” “These voices were incoherent; I never was able to understand them.” I saw this as a chance to use some remote viewing to “listen in” to these voices in her head at that time. I didn’t think it would work, but I closed my eyes and focused on the memory of her hearing those voices. I imagined my consciousness slipping back in time, attaching itself to her presence as if I were standing beside her when it happened. As I looked deeper, I felt a faint ringing in my ears, like the low hum of static interference. Slowly, fragmented words began to filter through—a rambling chorus of overlapping screams. “… why did you do it … why did you leave her … she’s coming … you can’t run … you’re too weak … she remembers … it’s your fault … her eyes are burning … you’re the reason … why didn’t you stop her … her face … you’re the reason she’s like this … end it with a knife …” The voices melded into a horrifying symphony, each word echoing through my mind. I strained to make sense of them, feeling the intensity build. It was as if dozens of voices were yelling directly into my brain, each one struggling to be heard over the other. “You can’t hide … she’s watching … she’ll make you see … you’ll see her face again … forever … it’s all your fault …” I pulled myself back abruptly, gasping for air. The couple watched me, unblinking. “She was trying to torment you,” I said, my voice barely steady. “The voices were blaming you. They wanted you to suffer. They mentioned a knife… Did something happen in your home? Something involving a knife?” The old man’s eyes darkened, and he nodded slowly. His gaze fell to the floor. His wife remained silent. “I killed her,” he confessed softly, almost as if admitting it to himself for the first time. “Candle Face was tormenting her, and I couldn’t stand to see my wife suffer anymore. The voices wouldn’t leave her alone, they kept saying things, terrible things. They were breaking her down, piece by piece.” “She begged me to help her,” he continued, his voice trembling. “So I took my gun and shot her in our bedroom while she was standing next to the bathroom entrance. She didn’t even scream, just looked at me with those haunted eyes, like she knew it was coming. She fell to the floor, and I barely had time to realize what I’d done before there was just a small pool of blood beneath her. I moved her body to my truck, cleaned the floor as best as I could, but the bathroom door had a hole in it I couldn’t fix. That type of door isn’t manufactured anymore. So I took it off its hinges and hid it in the barn under a pile of old hay. My plan was to burn her body, then bury the bones somewhere in South Texas and move back to Mexico. But before I could …” The old woman’s hand tightened on his arm, as if bracing him for what came next. “My son showed up,” the old man said. “It was an unannounced visit—came out of nowhere. He didn’t know what I’d done to his stepmother, didn’t even suspect it. He saw me outside, standing by my truck, and he must have seen something in my face, or maybe it was just bad timing. It was like he was being pulled there by something else, something I couldn’t see.” His voice dropped lower, trembling as he continued. “He got real angry, like something snapped in him. He accused me of trying to sell off the ranch or leave him behind. I tried to calm him down, but he wouldn’t listen. One moment he was yelling, and the next, he pulled out a gun. He shot me, right there beside the truck. Cold, like it didn’t mean a thing. I remember falling, staring up at the sky, wondering if this was how it all ended. He didn’t even check if I was dead. Just grabbed my body and tossed it into the back of the truck in a hurry.” His wife’s eyes were fixed on the floor. “He was in such a rush, he didn’t notice her,” the old man continued, his gaze shifting to his wife. “My wife’s bones were already in the truck bed, wrapped up in an old tarp. He didn’t even know she was there—didn’t know I’d killed her to end her suffering. He just threw me in with her remains and drove off, leaving the blood in the dirt outside the house. Drove all the way to South Texas and buried us deep in the desert, like we were nothing. Then he just left. I guess he carried out my plan for me.” His voice trembled. “He buried his own father and stepmother without even knowing it. All because of a misunderstanding, because of a moment of anger. And now he thinks I was going to abandon him, that I was going to run away.” The old woman’s hand tightened around her husband’s arm. “He doesn’t know the truth,” she said, her voice strained. “And we can never tell him. You can never tell him. He did what he thought he had to do. We don’t want him to get in trouble. He’s already paid enough.” The old man nodded slowly. “We don’t blame him, Ray. He didn’t know. And now we’re stuck here, trapped in this cycle, because Candle Face won’t let us go. She wants us to relive it all—the regret, the pain—over and over again.” He looked up suddenly, a flicker of memory in his eyes. “Just before he shot me, I swear I heard Candle Face yell in my ear, ‘This is your reward,’ like she was smiling at what was about to happen.” A son, unwittingly burying his parents in a fit of rage, believing he was left behind. A husband who took his wife’s life to spare her agony, only to find himself punished for it in death. They looked at me, eyes hollow but pleading. “Just don’t let anyone come after him,” the old man pleaded. “He’s been through enough already. Please.” The couple’s forms dissolved, their outlines blurring and fading. I stared at the empty space where they had stood, feeling the chill of their presence seep into my soul. I knew there was no way to ease their pain or undo Candle Face’s torment. But something else was gnawing at me, a deeper, darker suspicion as the seconds ticked by. This wasn’t just a random encounter. Candle Face had allowed them to come to me. She had made sure I heard every detail of their story. But why? I replayed their words, the fear and anguish etched into every syllable. Candle Face didn’t just want me to bear witness—she wanted me to remember. She was orchestrating this, pulling strings I couldn’t even see, ensuring that I became a part of whatever twisted game she was playing. My heart hammered against my ribs as I stood up, my legs trembling beneath me. The room felt darker now, the shadows lengthening and stretching, twisting at the corners of my vision. Candle Face wasn’t just a vengeful spirit, tormenting these lost souls. She was something else entirely—something that thrived on control and manipulation. She was toying with me, too. She wanted me to feel it too. The powerlessness. The helplessness. The way she forces her victims to watch, unable to stop her relentless cruelty. It didn’t matter how many spirits came to me, how many stories I listened to—there was no changing their fate. I was powerless. And that’s exactly how she wanted me to feel. A sharp sizzling sensation hit me in the chest, and I knew without a doubt: Candle Face had made her intentions clear. This wasn’t just about the souls she tortured—this was about me. Every word they spoke was a piece of the puzzle she wanted me to assemble. Every glimpse into their suffering was another brick in the wall she was building around me. The more I knew, the deeper I’d be in her web. Whatever game she was playing, she had just made me a central player. My hands shook as I clenched them into fists. I was her captive audience. I had a sinking feeling that more stories like this one were on their way. More souls, more pain, and with each one, Candle Face would be waiting, watching me untie piece by piece, savoring every moment. This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot. And as I glanced around my living room, I felt her presence curling around me like smoke, a faint, mocking laughter bouncing off the walls. I knew Candle Face was smiling, her grin wide and spiteful. Because she knew she had me exactly where she wanted me. Personal Note to My Readers (Updated on Oct 8, 2024) I’ve been doing a lot of thinking after this last encounter. Every time a lost soul reaches out to me, sharing their pain and tragedy, I’m left wondering if I’m really helping them or just playing into Candle Face’s hands. The more I look at it, the more I see her using these souls to mess with me—to make me feel the weight of their suffering, the frustration of not being able to do anything to change their fate, and that crushing sense of powerlessness. Just because Candle Face thinks she’s pulling the strings doesn’t mean I’m going to stop trying to help. I’ve learned that simply acknowledging the pain these souls have gone through is an act of defiance. I’m giving them a voice, even if Candle Face wants me to think it’s pointless. And that’s probably why she’s so determined to keep twisting things around. She wants me to believe that I’m just a helpless observer, that no matter what I do, it won’t matter. That’s her game. Make me doubt myself, make me think I’m as trapped as these souls. But I’m not falling for it. Every time I listen to these stories and share them, I’m pushing back against her control, even if it’s just a little. I know she’s using this confusion and these stories to weaken my determination, but I’m not giving in. Take, for example, the voices the old woman heard during our encounter. They weren’t just random words—they were Candle Face’s twisted way of breaking her spirit. The voices kept harping on things that made no sense, feeding on her guilt, confusion, and fear. That’s the thing—none of it is meant to make sense. It’s meant to drive her mad and leave her questioning everything. And if the voices didn’t make sense to you either, that’s because it’s not supposed to. That’s Candle Face’s tactic: keep it chaotic, keep it disturbing, and keep it personal. Let me break it down for you line by line: “… why did you do it …” It’s like Candle Face was trying to make the woman doubt herself, planting the idea that she did something wrong even if she didn’t. That vague accusation lingers, making it impossible for her to feel peace. “… why did you leave her …” Who’s “her”? Candle Face? Someone else? It’s designed to poke at the woman’s guilt, make her think she abandoned or betrayed someone. When you start doubting yourself, it’s easy to spiral into regret. “... she’s coming … you can’t run …” This one’s a classic scare tactic. It’s the equivalent of someone hiding around a corner and whispering “I’m coming to get you.” It’s meant to heighten her anxiety and fear, making her feel trapped and powerless. “... you’re too weak …” Candle Face is straight-up attacking her self-worth here, breaking down any confidence she had left. She wants her to feel like she’s completely powerless against whatever’s happening to her. “... she remembers … it’s your fault …” This is Candle Face planting a false narrative, making the woman believe that something she did or didn’t do is the reason why all this is happening. It doesn’t have to be true—just convincing enough to sow more doubt and guilt. “... her eyes are burning …” A reference to Candle Face’s appearance. It’s designed to remind the woman of that terrifying face, forcing her to relive the fear and trauma over and over again. “... you’re the reason … why didn’t you stop her …” Candle Face is making her feel responsible for something she never had any control over. She’s twisting the truth, turning it into a lie that feeds on the woman’s sense of regret. “... her face … you’re the reason she’s like this …” It’s a direct accusation, making it personal. Candle Face wants the woman to think she’s to blame for everything Candle Face has become. Whether it’s true or not doesn’t matter—it’s meant to hurt. But the part that really threw me off was when the voices started mentioning a knife. I know the husband killed his wife with a gun, so why bring up a knife? It doesn’t add up. And I’ve been chewing on that for a while now. I think Candle Face throws in false details like that to further confuse and disorient her victims. Maybe she wants them to think they’re forgetting something, or worse, remembering something that never happened. It’s a way to make them question their own sanity, to make them feel like they’re losing touch with reality. And in a way, it’s even more terrifying because you start to think, “What if I’ve forgotten something terrible?” or “What if I’m not remembering things correctly?” That knife didn’t exist, but in the old woman’s mind, it’s now part of her story, another burden she has to carry. See, that’s how Candle Face works—by turning truth into lies, mixing up memories, and making you feel responsible for things you never did. It’s not about the weapon she mentions; it’s about the damage she inflicts on the mind and soul. Candle Face doesn’t want her victims to have clarity or peace. She wants them confused, torn apart by doubt, and constantly questioning their own reality. The voices are there to blur the line between truth and fiction, making the woman feel guilty for things that never even happened. It’s psychological warfare at its finest. But here’s where I stand: I see through her games now. The more I encounter these lost souls, and the more I perfect my mediumship and remote viewing abilities, the more I understand Candle Face’s tactics. She might be trying to break me down, but I’m learning to piece things together, to find the logic in her chaos. I know she wants me to feel trapped, just like she did with that couple. She wants me to believe I’m just a helpless pawn in her sick game. But I’m not backing down. I’m going to keep listening to these lost souls, keep sharing their stories, and keep pushing back against whatever twisted game she’s playing. It’s not over—not by a long shot. Candle Face wants me to feel stuck, but I refuse to be just another pawn on her board. I’ll keep fighting for these souls, no matter how hard she makes me doubt myself. She might think she’s winning, but I’ve got news for her: I’m not going anywhere. Key To Understanding To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, 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 memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills

  • Candle Face Victim #39: Mark’s Endless Journey

    October 4, 2024 Last night, I did something different. Instead of wasting countless hours watching Facebook and YouTube videos, I decided to practice the mediumship techniques I’ve recently learned and combine them with remote viewing techniques. I moved my crystal ball into the dining room and sat down to meditate and clear my mind. It was around 1:00 am, and I was the only one awake, but I still felt a little silly staring into a crystal ball. After a while, the silliness disappeared, replaced by a sense of peace and mental clarity. As I continued gazing into the crystal ball and focusing on my breathing techniques, I heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching me from behind. I didn’t turn around; I continued concentrating on the crystal ball because I somehow knew it was a lost soul. He sat down next to me and introduced himself as Mark. I finally looked up at him and saw a lost soul more clearly than ever before. The details of my dining room were much more vivid than I had ever seen. I knew I was in some kind of trance, brought on by the meditation and my newfound techniques. He greeted me again with a look of amazement. He seemed tickled that I was looking around the dining room, almost as if he couldn’t believe I could see him. “Hello,” he said again, trying to get my full attention. I finally looked directly at him, noticing that he had a much larger head than most and had Spock-like, pointed ears. He was a white man, around 200 pounds, with blue eyes and looked to be about 40 years old. He seemed to wait for me to take him in before speaking again. “Hello,” he said for the third time, laughing softly. “I walked here from Waco, nearly 175 miles, just to talk to you.” “You walked here from Waco?” I asked loudly. “Yes,” he chuckled. “I like to walk.” I knew I wasn’t supposed to ask questions during these interactions because Candle Face forbids it. But I couldn’t help myself; this felt too important. I decided to ask anyway. “Why did you come all the way from Waco, Mark?” His gaze turned a bit more serious, his fingers tracing invisible patterns on the table. “Well, there’s some folks down there who, uh, asked me to help them with something. They wanted me to hand out these pamphlets around town—y’know, spread the word about her.” “Pamphlets about Candle Face?” I pressed. “Yeah, yeah… But we didn’t call her Candle Face back then. I don’t remember the name though, but it wasn’t Candle Face. But it was her, just with a different name. I didn’t believe in all that at first. Seemed like a buncha nonsense. I did it for the money. They didn’t pay much, but it was somethin’. I ain’t had much goin’ for me, so I figured, why not? But after a while, I dunno, started to make more sense to me, y’know?” He paused, glancing down at his hands. “Like, the more I talked to these folks, the more it seemed real. So, I got more excited ‘bout helpin’ ‘em.” He hesitated before continuing, “They knew I was missin’ a few marbles, though. I ain’t exactly the sharpest tool in the shed. They kinda took advantage of that. Had me doin’ stuff no one else wanted to do, but I didn’t care. I was just happy to be part of somethin’. They was my new family, y’know?” Mark’s expression brightened a bit as he recalled the memory. “I really liked passin’ out them pamphlets—long as I didn’t have to talk to nobody. If folks started askin’ questions, I’d just tell ‘em, ‘Read the pamphlet. It’s all in there.’ I wasn’t good with answerin’ questions, y’know?” “What kind of things were in the pamphlet?” I asked, leaning forward slightly. “Ah, just, stuff ‘bout Candle Face, or whatever her name is. How she’s out there, helping her people and helping spread her message. The pamphlet made her seem like a god or something. My new friends would warn me to not cross her or she’ll come after me too. At first, I didn’t think it was true, but after a while, well, I started wonderin’ if it really was. I started gettin’ real nervous handin’ ‘em out, like maybe she was watchin’ me.” “Did you keep handing them out?” He shook his head slowly. “Nah, started feelin’ weird ‘bout it, like somethin’ was wrong. So, when I’d get more of ‘em to pass out, instead of doin’ it, I’d just walk. I like to walk, especially when I’m feelin’ low. Walked way out in the countryside. Buried a bunch of them pamphlets in the dirt. Didn’t wanna look at ‘em no more.” He glanced up at me, almost sheepish. “But I’d tell ‘em I was still handin’ ‘em out, though. Lied right to their faces.” “Why didn’t you just quit?” I asked, even though I already sensed the answer. Mark gave a small, sad smile. “Didn’t wanna lose ‘em. They was the only folks that ever cared about me. So I kept it up, kept walkin’ ‘round with those pamphlets. But then one day, I was walkin’ along Highway 84, and a truck full of them saw me. Didn’t have no pamphlets on me, just my own sorry self.” “What happened then?” I sensed the story was about to take a dark turn, like all the other testimonies from the lost souls. “They pulled over. Said I was lettin’ everybody down. Got real angry. I tried to say I’d do better, but they didn’t listen.” Mark looked down, touching his neck. “One of them pulled out a knife and stabbed me right here, right in the neck. Didn’t even see it comin’. Then, they dragged me off the road, into the brush. Left me there, bleedin’ out. I felt my body go cold, heard the buzzards flappin’ ‘round. They picked at me ‘til there wasn’t much left.” I struggled to process what I’d just heard. “That’s why I walk,” Mark said again, his voice growing softer. “Even after all that. I walk and I walk ‘cause I ain’t got nowhere else to go. And every place I go, it’s like I’m seein’ all the death and pain she’s caused. People dead on the side of the road. Houses burned down. Folks screamin’ for help that never comes.” He paused. “It’s like I’m walkin’ through Candle Face’s own hell, a place she made just for me. My punishment for not handin’ out those pamphlets. She made me see all this death and destruction—things I coulda prevented if only I’d done what I was supposed to. If I’d just passed out more pamphlets, maybe people woulda known about her. Maybe they wouldn’t have died. Maybe, maybe they’d still be here.” He said, his voice full of regret and guilt. “That’s my punishment. To walk forever in a place full of hurtin’ people, a place I coulda stopped. She’s showin’ me what happens when folks don’t know ‘bout her. All because of me.” Mark’s eyes stared through me now, unfocused, as if he were no longer fully present in my dining room. His words tumbled out faster, almost frantic. “Every time I think I’ve walked far enough, I find myself right back where I started. I think I’m leavin’ it all behind, but then there’s more bodies, more pain. It’s like she’s watchin’ me. Like she’s laughin’ at me.” I wanted to say something—anything—to ease his suffering. What could I say? He believed he was trapped in Candle Face’s punishment, forced to witness endless suffering as a consequence of his actions. “I’m so tired,” Mark cried. “I just wanna rest. But I can’t stop. I have to keep walkin’. Maybe if I walk long enough, she’ll let me go. Maybe, just maybe, one day, I’ll get outta here.” He glanced up at me, eyes full of desperate hope. “D’you think that’s true? That if I keep goin’, I’ll find my way out? Or am I just stuck here forever?” I tried to hold back the sorrow and empathy swelling up inside me. “I don’t know, Mark, but I hope you do. I hope you find peace.” “Yeah, peace,” he repeated softly, as if the word was foreign to him. “Peace would be nice.” Mark fell silent, staring off into the distance. Then, as if coming to a decision, he turned and started walking toward the door. I watched, helpless, as he moved with a slow, deliberate gait, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. His form began to blur and fade as he stepped outside, but just before he disappeared completely, he glanced back over his shoulder. “Thanks for talkin’ to me,” he said, his voice faint but sincere. And then he was gone. Even though I was alone again, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he was still out there, walking through a world of pain and sorrow, searching for a peace that might never come. Personal Note to My Readers Mark’s story left a mark on me (no pun intended). It made me realize how essential it’s for me to refine my skills to connect with souls like Mark in a more meaningful way. Since completing Nicole Riccardo ’s Mediumship Bootcamp and Stacey Tallitsch’s remote viewing class , I’ve been diligently applying the meditation and focusing techniques they taught. While I’m far from mastering these skills, last night’s encounter with Mark was the first time I truly felt the impact of what I’ve been practicing. The structured meditation exercises are beginning to help me quiet my mind and filter out distractions more effectively. It’s slight, but I’m noticing a difference. One of the foundational exercises I’ve learned from Nicole, grounding myself by visualizing roots extending from my feet into the earth, has been particularly helpful in stabilizing my energy and maintaining focus. During my session with Mark, this grounding technique kept me centered even as I felt his emotional turbulence wash over me. I wasn’t overwhelmed like I might have been before. Instead, I could observe and feel his emotions without getting caught up in them, allowing me to better understand his state of mind. Another exercise I’ve incorporated is “target acquisition” from Stacey’s remote viewing course. Although I’m still getting the hang of it, I tried it with Mark. Instead of passively waiting for him to come through, I focused on his voice, letting my mind’s eye follow its resonance. This seemed to strengthen our connection, making his presence feel more solid. For a brief moment, I felt like I was on the edge of something—like a veil was lifting, giving me a clearer view into his world. I know it’s just a start, but these techniques are already making it easier to pick up on details that might have slipped past me before. It’s almost as if I’m tuning in to a new frequency, one where the voices and sensations of the lost souls are coming through more clearly. Mark’s voice wasn’t just a faint voice; it had texture and depth. I could hear how it wavered when he spoke about his past and how it steadied when he asked me if I thought he could find peace. These are slight shifts, but they feel significant. I’m not claiming to have perfected these techniques overnight. In fact, I’m still working on finding the right balance between using them and maintaining the spontaneity of these encounters. But last night’s experience with Mark gave me a glimpse of what’s possible. If I can refine these skills further, who knows what I might be able to do? For now, it’s enough to know that I’m making progress and that these new techniques are helping me bridge the gap between my world and theirs in a way I’ve never been able to before. This is just the beginning. I have a feeling that these new techniques will lead me to even more profound encounters. I’m grateful to have you all along for the mission.ath takes me next, and I’m grateful to have you all along for the journey. Key To Understanding To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, 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 memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills

  • Strengthening My Abilities to Confront Candle Face

    October 2, 2024 Lately, I’ve been dedicating more time to strengthening my remote viewing and mediumship abilities—both those I’ve developed on my own and the new techniques I recently learned from Stacey Tallitsch’s Remote Viewing class   and Nicole Riccardo‘s Mediumship Bootcamp . It’s been an educational journey that’s reinforced my belief that I can take the reins of the paranormal side of my investigations and rely less on the paranormal community for assistance. The Mediumship Bootcamp, led by Nicole Riccardo, introduced me to a range of exercises designed to enhance the different “clairs”—clairvoyance (clear seeing), clairaudience (clear hearing), clairsentience (clear feeling), claircognizance (clear knowing), clairalience (clear smelling), and clairgustance (clear tasting). Each technique is meant to refine our intuitive senses, and I’ve blended these practices with my existing knowledge of remote viewing. For example, Nicole explains that one of the foundational exercises for developing clairvoyance involves meditating while looking into a flame or crystal ball. I have a large crystal ball that weighs over 20 pounds, which I originally bought as an office decoration back in my military intelligence days. Many Soldiers jokingly said that military intelligence personnel used crystal balls or witchcraft to predict or shape enemy operations, so it was my way of poking fun at that rumor. However, I’ve found myself gazing at it while meditating despite my saying just days ago that I didn’t need any aids. This practice is intended to train the mind’s eye to receive images and gain clarity through visions. I’ve been adapting this technique by incorporating it into my remote viewing sessions. Instead of just observing a static scene, I allow my mind to freely shift between different locations and events, pulling in visual information that might otherwise be obscured. This approach has enhanced my remote viewing by helping me connect with more details and visualize locations more deeply. While I haven’t seen anything concrete during these sessions, I do feel a new sense of calm and relaxation. It’s as if I’m settling into the practice, and I believe I’m heading in the right direction. The clarity will come with time, I hope. The exercises to enhance clairaudience—such as adjusting to background noises or isolating specific instruments in a song—are helping me refine my ability to distinguish between various voices or entities that might be trying to communicate with me. By isolating these sounds during remote viewing sessions, I can better interpret any auditory messages I receive, rather than relying solely on visual cues. It’s almost as if I’m tuning a radio dial, trying to find the frequency that lets me hear the spirits more clearly. During the Mediumship Bootcamp, Nicole played some of her own music, which featured six or seven different instruments. We were tasked with tuning into one instrument only. About halfway through the song, I found I could fine-tune my ears to that specific instrument, and I began to predict how the rest of the song would unfold. It was as if I had heard the song before and knew it intimately despite never having heard it before. Another technique that has proven invaluable is clairsentience—the ability to sense emotions and physical sensations. This has always been more challenging for me, as I tend to prioritize logic and reason over emotion. However, by practicing energy-sharing exercises, where one person sends an emotion, and the other receives it, I’m becoming more aware of the emotional shifts during remote viewing sessions. I hope to eventually tap into the emotional states of the lost souls, providing deeper context to the information they share. This practice is helping me understand the lost souls’ emotions and become more comfortable with my own, a significant step forward in my personal development. Integrating these techniques has been more than just an academic exercise—it’s a step toward independence. I’ve always appreciated the information and support of psychics, mediums, and other members of the paranormal community. But, there have been times when I felt constrained by the need to rely on others. The frustration of waiting for external validations or interpretations often slowed down the progress of my investigations. With remote viewing, the ability to project my consciousness to different locations and observe events has always been central to my work. Now, combining it with these enhanced intuitive abilities, I feel that I’m discovering deeper information that was previously inaccessible. But now, I feel like I’m taking more control. I’m trusting myself more, even when the information isn’t clear-cut. When a lost soul reaches out, or I sense Candle Face lurking nearby, I don’t need to immediately turn to someone else for validation. I have the tools and confidence to explore these encounters on my own. That’s not to say I’m closing myself off to outside help—far from it. There’ll always be a place for collaboration in this investigation, and I still value the perspectives of trusted psychics, mediums, and paranormal investigators. However, by enhancing my own abilities, I’m hoping to fill in the gaps and approach my work with more self-reliance. This shift in mindset has already started paying off. The past few nights, the energy in my living room, where the spirits often manifest, feels different. Actually, I just thought of something: maybe I don’t need to wait for the lost souls to come to me now—at least until I can sharpen my new skills. Maybe I can go directly to them. What if I could visit the sites where they were murdered and try to see what happened? I could embed myself in the location, using my remote viewing and clairvoyance to pick up on any remaining energy, visual details, or even sounds that might have been imprinted on the environment. This could provide geolocation information, descriptions of the killers, and other key details such as terrain and weather conditions on that fateful day. Being “physically” present might help me connect more deeply, revealing information that I couldn’t perceive while simply sitting on my couch, listening to the lost souls. It’s a new approach, and I’m curious to see if it could help me discover more clues. Of course, such a strategy isn’t without risks—physically visiting these locations could expose me to residual energy or encounters with entities still lingering at the sites, like Candle Face’s shadows or Candle Face herself. However, I’m willing to explore this option, keeping my guard up and preparing for anything. Am I starting to see things more clearly? Reflecting on these new possibilities, it feels like I’m coming full circle. I began this mission with nothing but a strong desire to help these lost souls and find answers. Now, I’m equipping myself to see it through, no matter where it leads. The classes were just the beginning. The real work is just getting started. I feel more prepared and committed than ever to helping these souls find peace. A Personal Note to My Readers I want to take a moment to thank all of you for being part of this mission with me. Navigating the world of lost souls and confronting Candle Face hasn’t been easy, but your support and encouragement have made all the difference. Every message I receive and every shared experience from those of you who have sensed or seen things paranormal reinforces that I’m not alone in this mission. Your belief in my work has kept me moving forward. I hope that as I continue to develop my own skills, you’ll find inspiration to deepen your own understanding of life and what lies beyond. We are all explorers in this vast, uncharted territory, and I’m grateful to have you by my side. I’d love to hear from you: Have any of you felt a similar shift in energy when practicing your own intuitive abilities? If so, what have you experienced? Please feel free to share in the comments or reach out to me directly. Your stories are what make this community so special. Looking ahead, I’ll test some of these new ideas by visiting one of the sites mentioned by a lost soul. It’s a risky endeavor, but I believe it will be worth it. I hope you’ll stay tuned for the next chapter as I document what unfolds. I often wonder what keeps me going in the face of such evil. But when I think about the lost souls—the glimpses of light I see when a piece of their story comes to the surface—I know it’s worth it. I’m not just helping them; in many ways, they’re helping me too. To each of you who reads these journal entries and supports my mission, thank you for being part of this story. We’re in this together. Key To Understanding To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, 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 memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills

  • Candle Face Victim #38: High on Drugs, Low on Belief

    September 20, 2024 Things have been hectic lately. Yesterday, Mr. Smoe called me a liar. He wants to appear on a podcast with me again to expose what he claims are lies and reveal Candle Face’s “real” identity. It’s hard not to let his words get under my skin. After everything I’ve been through—after all the lost souls who have come to me—he thinks it’s all some elaborate lie? What exactly does Mr. Smoe think he knows? What’s he planning to say on the podcast? And worse yet—what if people believe him? He’s convinced he has the truth about Candle Face, claiming he’ll reveal her “real” identity. But here’s the thing: I’ve decided it’s better to let him say his piece without my interference. I won’t refute or challenge his claims right now. For now, I’ll hold back what I know. Hopefully, we can do this podcast soon. The longer these accusations hang in the air, the more they fester. And I can’t afford to let them distract me from my work—not when so much is at stake. Sitting on my couch and makeshift bed, I pondered what Mr. Smoe said. As the hours dragged on, the lights began to flicker, and the shadows in the corner of my living room thickened—signs that a lost soul had arrived. Out of the shadows stepped a woman in her mid-thirties, wearing a wide smile framed by dark red lipstick. She sat beside me on the couch, bouncing a little as if trying to get comfortable. Her eyes scanned me, still smiling. “I’m a fellow veteran,” she said. “So, I hope you’ll give me special attention and help me find my killers.” “How can I help you?” I asked, without thinking at the time she just told me. Her smile faltered, her voice softening. “I guess I should start with my name. It’s Katty.” At least, I thought she said “Katty,” but something about the way she mumbled it, or maybe it was just the flickering lights distracting me made me unsure. Later, I could’ve sworn I heard her refer to herself as Matty. Was it Katty or Matty? I couldn’t tell. She continued, oblivious to my confusion. “I had a good life once. You know, I was happy. I served my country. But it all went downhill when I started hanging with some Soldiers in my unit at Fort Hood.” “They were using drugs,” she went on, “and I wasn’t planning to get back into that scene after fighting so hard to stay clean. But you know how it goes—old habits die hard.” She paused, her eyes dropping as she seemed to relive the struggle. “They had these civilian friends off base, and that’s where I started getting cheaper stuff. We’d all hang out there, staying up all night, high as a kite, talking about everything. Politics, life, the future. When you’re high, you think you’re solving all the world’s problems. It was all so stupid. But when you’re in that state, you believe you’re invincible. Like nothing can touch you.” Her eyes shifted up to meet mine again. “That’s when Candle Face came up.” I leaned in slightly, curious about where this was going. She caught my movement and continued. “They were always talking about her—this spirit who would come for people who doubted her. I didn’t believe it, though. I mean, how could I? I thought it was just some dumb story to scare each other, you know? But I played along. You kinda have to when you’re in with a group like that. You don’t want to be the odd one out.” She stopped for a moment. “And I needed them,” she said softly. “I needed the drugs.” “What happened next?” I asked. “I screwed up,” she said. “One night, we were sitting around, high as usual, talking about Candle Face like always. But this time, I wasn’t really paying attention, and I let it slip—I said, ‘I don’t really believe in this Candle Face stuff. It’s all stupid, isn’t it?’” She paused, as if reliving that moment. “That’s when everything changed. They all went quiet. I’ll never forget the look in their eyes. It wasn’t just shock; it was like they were angry—like I had broken some sacred rule. But they didn’t say anything right then. They just stared.” She took a deep breath. “I didn’t think much of it at first,” she said, her voice trembling. “I thought maybe they were just messing with me. But after that night, things started to feel off. They weren’t laughing anymore, not around me. And they weren’t as friendly. Like they were keeping their distance.” Her eyes filled with fear as she continued. “Every time we got together after that, they wouldn’t joke around with me like before. No more late-night conversations, no more small talk. I’d catch them glancing at each other when I’d speak, like I didn’t belong anymore. Like I was an outsider.” She swallowed hard. “Then, one night, they invited me to hang out again. But this time, it wasn’t at the usual spot. They came to my house near Killeen.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “I should’ve known something was wrong.” She wiped her palms against her jeans. “When they showed up, the vibe was different. They weren’t there to get high or talk about life. They had this look like they were there on a mission.” She hesitated, her voice breaking. “They told me it was Candle Face’s will—that she demanded punishment for what I’d said. For lying. For pretending to believe when I didn’t.” Her eyes filled with tears. “They held me down,” she said as she began to cry. “They said they weren’t doing it, that Candle Face was making them, that she was controlling their hands. But I know they believed it. They thought they had to do it. And they killed me, right there, in my own house.” She shook her head slowly, tears falling down her cheeks. “Because I didn’t believe.” The room fell into silence. I could feel her pain, the betrayal, and the fear that had consumed her in those final moments. And then, as if she couldn’t hold it in any longer, she said, “I don’t know if Candle Face is real, but they believed. And that’s all that mattered.” I nodded slowly. “I’ll help you,” I didn’t know how, but I would find a way. I owed her that much. Deep down, I knew this would be far from simple. I haven’t helped many lost souls in the nearly year I have been forced into this role. But I must try. She stood up and walked to the portal, turning to give me another glance. “Bye Ray, please help me and as many of us as possible.” She stood at attention and gave me a sharp salute. My chest tightened as I stood up and returned the salute. She stepped back into the portal and disappeared. Key To Understanding o ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, 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 memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills

  • Candle Face Victim #37: DJ of the Dammed

    September 13, 2024 I picked up my extra-long white blanket, fluffing it high into the air so it could spread out fully, almost floating like a ghost before it drifted down toward the couch—my bed for over a year and a half now. I can’t even remember what a real bed feels like, and frankly, I don’t care. This couch is perfect for me. But as the blanket began to settle, something felt wrong. It didn’t land flat as it always did. At that moment, the lights in the room flickered violently, casting strange, shifting shadows across the walls. My heart skipped a beat, and the blanket, now halfway to the couch, revealed a faint outline, disturbingly human-like, pressing up against the fabric, as though the couch itself had suddenly taken on a body. My pulse quickened as I stared at the form taking shape beneath the blanket, waiting for it to move. But it stayed perfectly still. Fear crept over me for the first time in a long while, even though I knew it was just another nocturnal visitor—the first in two months, the longest drought. Slowly, I pulled the blanket back. There was nothing there, just the distinct impression of something that had been lying there moments ago. I took a few steps back, my pulse thumping in my chest, and watched as the imprint shifted—flattening and then rising slightly, as if someone had sat up. I could clearly make out the shape of what looked like a seated figure, the faint depression of where its body had been. Then I heard a voice, crackling like static through an old radio. “Hello, Ray. I need your help.” “Where are you?” I asked, my voice trembling as the temperature in the room rose. “I don’t have a physical form anymore—just a voice. People all around Austin knew my voice in the ‘90s, but few knew what I looked like. Candle Face took my body because...” The voice paused. “She took my body because I used it to hide my filth, my dirty deeds. She took it away to strip me bare, to punish me for the lies I told. She left my voice because that’s all I ever was—a voice, no substance. And now she’s made sure I can never have a body again.” He then started his testimony. “I worked as a DJ in Austin in the ‘90s. Everyone knew my voice, but no one knew my struggles. I was addicted to porn and enjoyed flashing people around 6th Street. Not on 6th Street itself, but in the nearby alleys where drunk girls would wander back to their cars. I’d open my trench coat and flash them, then run away. None of my listeners knew about my dirty secret, making it even more exciting.” He paused momentarily. “I loved the adrenaline rush leading up to the moment I exposed myself and watching the girls’ reactions. The idea that they probably listened to me on the radio but had no idea it was me, it made me want to explode. I lived for that thrill. But eventually, I got caught. Somehow, I managed to hide the truth from everyone—my bosses, my listeners, and even my friends and family.” He stopped for a moment, as though struggling to continue. “After a year, I started to feel the urge again. I tried to resist it, but it took a lot of meth to stop me from acting out. One day, a woman handed me a flyer on 6th Street about a little girl. The flyer said she could free people from their pain if they only believed. I kept the flyer, folding it neatly to fit in my wallet. I read it over and over, as if it held some answer to my misery. One day, the same woman who handed out the flyers recognized me. She asked if I had given it any thought. I showed her the flyer, and she seemed so impressed that I kept it with me. She even shed a tear or two. We started talking, some light flirting, and I thought maybe I’d get lucky. But it didn’t happen that night. We met up several more times over the following weeks. She wanted to know all about me and what being a radio star was like. One day, she brought up the little girl again. She said I could help spread her message with a weekly radio show. I had no interest in doing a show about a little girl ghost who supposedly heals people’s pain, but I played along. I only wanted to get with her. We kept meeting, and she kept pushing for the show. I told her it would start soon, knowing I was lying just to keep her attention. Eventually, I told her the first episode would air tonight, but the truth was, I wasn’t working on it at all.” His voice trembled slightly, as if recalling a memory he desperately wanted to forget. “When I arrived at her apartment, it seemed normal at first. She smiled, pulled me in for a kiss, and I thought I had won. But then, she pulled the curtains back. Outside, I saw figures standing just beyond the windows in the dark. The same people who handed out the flyers. They were watching us. Silent. Waiting.” My kitchen lights flickered again as he continued. “She told me she knew I was lying about the show. They knew. They knew I was only interested in her, that I was stringing them along. They dragged me down, and she pulled out a knife. The others held me down while she cut into me, carving symbols into my skin. They said I would now serve her. She would take away my physical form—leave me as nothing more than a voice.” The static in his voice grew louder, more desperate. “She left my radio-like voice because that’s all I ever had. All I ever was—a voice with no soul, no real substance. Now, I serve that little girl in her lair. I’m the voice in many of her victim’s ears.” His voice crackled with intensity, then his tone grew darker, more threatening. “There’s a woman right now in Austin who had ridiculed her. She believes her baby died peacefully of natural causes. But every night, I yell a different story into her ears. I tell her the truth—that she, the one you call ‘Candle Face,’ took her child. I tell her how, in the dead of night, the baby was snatched from her crib, its tiny body twisted and broken in ways no mother should ever imagine. I describe the sound of its last breath. Every night, I make her hear the baby’s cries. Not the gentle cooing of a newborn, but the tortured wails of someone caught in a meat grinder. I tell her the cries are coming from the other side, louder every night, louder the longer she stays awake. She thinks if she keeps her eyes open, the cries will stop, but they never do. I make sure of that. Sometimes, she’ll claw at her ears until they bleed, desperate to drown out the sound of her baby’s torture. She’s afraid to sleep because when she does, I make the cries even more vivid. In her dreams, she sees her baby reaching for her, its tiny fingers blackened and stiff, its eyes empty. She tries to hold it, but the baby crumbles in her arms, a pile of ash. And still, she hears the screams, louder and louder, until she wakes up, sobbing and gasping for air, wishing for death. The truth is, Ray, she’s already gone. She doesn’t know it, but she’s lost her mind. I’ve hollowed her out. I’ve turned her into a shell, and soon, she’ll do anything to silence the cries, even if it means joining her baby.” The kitchen lights flickered again. “And there’s a man, a doctor. People trusted him with their lives. But he mocked the little girl. Now, I make him hear the voices of every patient he’s ever lost on the operating table—their voices twisted with pain and betrayal, as if they knew he could have saved them but didn’t. Every night, I shout their last words into his ears. The desperate gasps, the pleas for him to keep trying, even when their hearts had already stopped. He can hear the machines flatlining, the beeps echoing in his head. I remind him of every mistake, every hesitation that led to their deaths. I make him relive every incision, every cut that went too deep, every moment where he hesitated—those seconds that cost them their lives. One patient was a young girl, no older than six. She went into surgery for something routine—a procedure he’d done hundreds of times. But when she didn’t wake up, her parents never forgave him. Now, every night, I make him hear her voice, soft at first, ‘Doctor...’ she says, ‘I can’t breathe… why didn’t you save me?’ He tries to answer her, but his throat closes up. She keeps saying, ‘You let me die… why didn’t you save me?’ Another voice belongs to a man who had a heart attack on the table. His surgery was supposed to be his last chance, but the doctor’s hands slipped during the operation, severing an artery. The man bled out in minutes. Now, I make him feel the blood on his hands, warm and sticky, as the patient’s voice comes through—gurgling, choking. ‘Why did you let me die?’ the voice asks, over and over, in a wet rasp. ‘I wasn’t ready.’ It’s always the same, Ray. The voices start soft. But by midnight, they’re screaming. They scream his name, they beg for him to help them again, they accuse him of playing God. Sometimes, I make him feel their hands—cold and clammy, grabbing at his shoulders, pulling at his wrists, dragging him back to the operating table. He feels their fingers digging into his skin, trying to drag him down with them. He doesn’t sleep anymore. He can’t. Every time he closes his eyes, I make him see their faces—gray, lifeless, staring at him from the cold steel of the operating table. Their mouths gape open, but instead of silence, they scream. Sometimes, I show him their corpses, rising from the table, the gaping wounds he gave them still raw, bleeding, as they reach out to him, yelling, ‘You should have saved me.’ He thought he could hide, tried to drown himself in alcohol, pills, anything to quiet the voices, but they follow him. I follow him. She follows him. He’s already seeing shadows, thinking he’s catching glimpses of them standing at the foot of his bed. But he knows—no matter where he goes, I’ll find him. They’ll find him. They’re always waiting for him to slip up, waiting for the moment when he’ll be the one lying on the table, with no one to save him. That’s the beauty of it, Ray. He can’t save himself. No one can.” His voice grew more intense. “I’m the voice that reminds them, Ray. I’m the voice that keeps her – Candle Face – alive in their heads. I tailor each story, spinning it just right to dig deep into their worst fears, their darkest regrets. I get into their heads, using my DJ voice, planting seeds of terror until they break.” I tried to speak, but my voice was barely audible. “Why… why are you telling me this?” “Because, Ray,” his voice crackled, “it’ll be your turn soon enough. You’re already hearing me, aren’t you? Candle Face sees you, and trust me, she’s in your head. You just don’t realize it yet.” My throat tightened, and I tried to breathe. “Soon I’ll be yelling into your ears,” the DJ continued, his voice shifting from desperate to almost gleeful. “Maybe I’ll tell you that the people you trust are turning against you. Maybe I’ll make you see Candle Face’s victims in every face you pass. Or maybe I’ll make you doubt everything—your memories, your thoughts, until you can’t tell what’s real anymore. That’s when the fun begins, Ray.” I staggered back away from the couch, trying to shut out the suffocating feeling that was closing in on me. “And you know, when I’m done with you, Ray, I’ll be promoted. She rewards those who serve her well. I’ll become one of her shadows, the ones who torment her critics when they arrive at her lair. But first, I get to toy with you. I’ll make you feel like you’re burning alive, your skin peeling off as you scream. And then I’ll take away everything you hold dear, one piece at a time. Your sanity? Gone. Your life? I’ll make you beg for the end, but it’ll never come.” He paused. “Do you know what else will happen, Ray? Your stories—the characters you created in your books—they’ll haunt you. Every twisted plotline, every agony you wrote into their lives, they’ll inflict on you tenfold. All Candle Face’s victims will also come to you, they’ll all start to blame you for their agony. The woman who lost her child will come to you, every night, cradling her broken baby and asking you why you did it. No matter how much you plead that it was just fiction, she won’t care. She’ll leave that lifeless child in your arms, and the cries you made her hear. You’ll hear them too, louder and louder, until your mind shatters under the weight of her pain. Remember the doctor, Ray? He’ll come for you too. You’ll be the one lying on the operating table, feeling his botched surgeries, over and over again, each cut leaving you closer to death but never letting you die. You’ll scream for mercy, but just like in your story, there will be none.” His laughter echoed in the living room. “And Candle Face, as you call her, oh, she’ll enjoy this most of all. You think you’ve been writing about her, don’t you? But she’s been writing about you, Ray. She’s already in your head, twisting every thought, and soon, you won’t be able to tell what’s real and what’s fiction. You’ll see her in every corner of your mind, hear her voice in every silence, feel her hot breath in every nightmare. And the worst part? You’ll never escape.” My heart pounded in my chest, and for the first time, I realized that the stories I’d written, the horrors I’d conjured, were coming back for me. Tears welled up in my eyes as the weight of his words crushed me. “When I’m done with you, Ray, you’ll wish you had never jumped in that hole. You’ll wish you had never given her that nasty name. But by then, it’ll be too late. You’ll be too far gone.” I stood there, trembling, as his voice faded into silence. For the first time in a long time, I felt the walls of my mind closing in, and the thought that crept into my mind terrified me more than any spirit ever had: I need to focus on my own sanity before I become one of the lost souls myself. Personal Note to My Readers To all of you following my mission, I feel it’s time to share the truth that I’ve been grappling with—truths I wish I could bury, but they won’t stay hidden. Candle Face has been in my life far longer than I ever imagined. What started as a mission to help the lost souls trapped in her lair has become something I can barely comprehend. I’ve written their stories, shared their pain, and tried to give them the peace they deserve, but now I fear that trying to save them has brought me closer to becoming one of them. Each night, the voices grow louder, the shadows grow darker, and I can’t escape the feeling that it’s no longer just about helping the souls who cry out to me. It’s about saving myself. I need to protect myself as much as I’ve tried to protect them. Candle Face is no longer content with taking her critics—she’s coming for me, using the DJ, using her victims, and soon enough, she’ll break into my mind fully. It’s a cruel irony, isn’t it? I still believe that helping these lost souls is the key. I’ve convinced myself that if I pick up the pace, if I help more of them, maybe it’ll stop. Maybe I’ll have done enough to quiet the voices, to end this nightmare before it consumes me. But then again, I don’t even know what to believe anymore. My mind plays tricks on me, twisting reality into something unrecognizable. I’m haunted by the very souls I’ve tried to save. I hear their cries now, which is something I haven’t written before. They accuse me, blame me, ask why I didn’t do more. And Candle Face, she’s in my head now. She’s writing about me as much as I’ve written about her. What will she do with her story about me? What does it say? The weight of it all crushes me more with each passing day. I don’t know how much longer I can stand on this tightrope, balancing between protecting the lost and protecting myself. Maybe there’s no protection at all. Maybe it’s all part of Candle Face’s game, and I’m just another piece on her board, waiting for my time to fall. I have mentioned this before, but this time, I know I can’t escape. To my readers, I want to say thank you for standing by me. But I fear that soon, I won’t be able to stand at all. The shadows are closing in, and I’m not sure if I can hold on. I need to focus on my own sanity before I become one of the lost souls myself. But even as I write these words, I know my time is running out. Candle Face is already here, and the battle for my mind is well underway. Stay safe, and pray for the lost souls. Pray for me. Key To Understanding To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this journal entry, 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 memoir provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this journal entry might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door  is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this journal entry's content and implications. To purchase The Empty Lot Next Door , please visit Amazon Paperback: https://amzn.to/46lCovb eBook for Kindle: https://amzn.to/44YFww4 Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] Paperback:   https://amzn.to/4dz3m7d eBook: https://amzn.to/4bsM6ib Visit Us Online Website: https://www.candleface.com Facebook Page: https://www.facebook.com/candlefacechronicles Facebook Group (Dream Team Members Only): https://www.facebook.com/groups/candleface YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/@CandleFace666 Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/artmills

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