Arthur Mills, a seasoned investigator with 30 years of experience, is leading a real investigation into mysterious deaths in Central Texas and urgently requires the assistance of readers of the supernatural, paranormal enthusiasts, paranormal investigators, mediums, and psychics. This investigation involves analyzing real-world paranormal incidents to locate victims' bodies and identify their killers. Your expertise is crucial to uncovering these truths. Please get in touch with us if you want to contribute your skills to this vital mission. Join us in unraveling these mysteries and bringing closure to the lost souls. Visit us at https://wwwcandleface.com . 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 To Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] , please visit Amazon 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

March 16, 2024 On March 8, 2024, I was visited by two spirits, a woman and a man. In an unexpected revelation, the woman disclosed that the man accompanying her was responsible for her death. She recounted how Candle Face exacted revenge on him for not obeying her instructions to bring his victim to a remote spot in the forest. Instead, he killed her. As a result, Candle Face killed him. Now, the perpetrator and his victim are eternally linked, hand-in-hand, until her remains are found. She shared that after abducting her, he placed her in the trunk of his car, left the area, but came back to retrieve her Walkman that she had lost during the assault. He discovered the Walkman on the road and then left permanently. She informed me that the battery case of her Walkman, along with the batteries, were left at the abduction site, and finding them would lead to her remains. Read the journal entry here . On March 15, 2024, a reader commented on my blog, which I refer to as my “Journal,” noting that the story of a missing young woman in Georgetown, TX, bears a remarkable resemblance to the case of Rachel Cooke, after conducting some research, I found several compelling parallels. Description News Media Reports Spirit's Testimony Race White White Gender Female Female Age 19 Appeared to be 19-20 Missing Location Georgetown, TX Georgetown, TX Activity when Missing Jogging near parent's house Jogging Last Seen Jan 10, 2002 Winter Other Jogging with pink or yellow Walkman Jogging with Walkman Other Witnesses saw a vehicle driving slowly in the area The killer drove slowly in the area to look for the missing Walkman The internet abounds with reports about Rachel Cooke, including social media profiles aimed at locating her. KVUE , an ABC affiliate, is among those reporting. They note that Rachel Cooke enjoyed Cross-Country running, a passion I once shared in my youth. According to the report, she vanished while jogging on Neches Trail near her parents’ house in Georgetown, TX. The Austin American-Statesman  added that Rachel had a yellow Walkman during her last jog. Although there have been suspects, no arrests have been made, and the 22-year-old case remains unresolved. Could the spirit who visited me be Rachel Cooke? The similarities are notably striking. However, I urge caution among my readers in accepting the spirit’s testimony as definitive. While the spirit’s descriptions closely resemble Rachel Cooke’s circumstances, drawing connections might be straightforward yet premature considering the vast number of missing persons cases. Further investigation is warranted. I expressly advise my readers against contacting Rachel Cooke’s family regarding this delicate issue. Such matters should be left to professionals if deemed appropriate. 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 To Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] , please visit Amazon 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

Candle Face Victim # 20 March 18, 2024 Fed up with sleeping on the couch, I decided to head upstairs to sleep in a bed. As I ascended the stairs, I spotted the shadowy outline of a man lingering in the bedroom. Unsure whether he might lash out at me like some spirits had before, I cautiously proceeded. Gently, I pushed the door open wider to gain a clearer view. He seemed just as wary as I was, which eased my tension. Entering the room, I leaned against the wall in silence. He interpreted my quiet demeanor as a cue to begin. Every city has its myths; Austin was no exception, and I knew them all — or so I thought. My steps were always unsteady, a limp betraying the half of me that never quite woke up after a car accident. I talked to myself because sometimes my own voice was the only reassurance that I was still alive. I frequented the downtown scene, a network of vibrant streets that throbbed with music and life, and yet I was always on the fringes, an onlooker to the enthusiasm I could never fully embrace. There, I met my “Lady Friend,” a term she insisted upon with a laugh that carried warmth and an edge of something darker. She was entranced by the stories that breathed life into the shadows of our city, particularly one: Candle Face. My Lady Friend was a believer. She spun stories of Candle Face with a sacred passion, her eyes alight with the reflection of unseen flames. She spoke of a danger that haunted the woods in northwest Austin, a creature with hollow eyes and a molten smile, and how it sought out those who dared to doubt its existence. I listened because I loved the sound of my Lady Friend’s voice, not her words. I should’ve listened to her words. “You don’t believe?” she’d often asked, a playful note in her voice that didn’t quite mask the undercurrent of frustration. I’d shake my head, dismissing her stories with a crooked smile. “I believe in what I can touch and see with my own eyes. Stories are just that, stories.” One evening, the air crisp with the scent of turning leaves and distant smoke, my Lady Friend took my arm and led me away from the familiar streets of downtown. We took a taxi to the far northwest corner of town and then walked toward the woodlands, her stride purposeful and mine increasingly hesitant. “Why are we here?” My voice wavered, a contrast to the confidence of her grip. She turned, her smile unsettling in the failing light. “I want to show you something, something real. You’ll believe then, you’ll believe.” The woods closed in around us, the trail narrowing with every step. The deeper we went, the more I felt the weight of unseen eyes, the heat of a presence that seemed to coil around us, silent and expectant. We reached a creek, its waters filled with sorrow. It was there that I saw Candle Face for the first time. The figure emerged from the shadows, all at once there and not there, its face a creepy wax mask with two dim flickering flames where the eyes should be. A steamy hand, surprisingly solid, reached for mine, and I recoiled — but not quickly enough. “Thank you,” Candle Face chanted, its voice the sound of a night breeze rustling through dead leaves. My Lady Friend’s laughter, tinged with a madness I had never heard before, rose above the sound of the creek. “You should have believed.” Panic clawed at my throat as I tried to pull away, but Candle Face’s grip was unyielding. My limp became a desperate drag as I was led into the deepening gloom, my screams swallowed by the sound of the trees laughing along with my Lady Friend. Her laughter echoed behind me, a soundtrack to my disbelief unraveling into raw, primal fear. My limb made me stumble as Candle Face guided me towards the shadows. The shadows welcomed us, and I realized that Candle Face was no myth. It was as real as the pain that shot through my useless leg, as the betrayal that hollowed out my chest. My Lady Friend, with her stories and avid belief, had fed me to her monster. And as I was led deeper into the dark, I finally believed. I believed in fear. I believed in betrayal. I believed in the end. The face before me seemed to soften, the candle eyes dimming with something that might have been satisfaction. It spoke words that flickered like flame, “Belief is the beginning and the end. You see, only when you believe do you truly see.” And in that final moment, I saw everything. The spirit began reaching out his right hand but quickly withdrew it while glancing back toward the shadows as if he knew he had made a mistake. I didn’t push the issue. I thanked him for his time and told him I’d try to help him. He looked at me surprisingly, like he didn’t know I could respond. He winked and limped back into the shadows of my bedroom. Personal Note to My Readers It seems I have gained the ability to communicate with my nocturnal visitors. This might be the second or third instance where I’ve directly talked with them. As they share their stories with me, I refrain from posing questions; instead, I absorb what they say. After they departed, I wondered why I couldn’t ask questions. With time, I hope to be able to ask them questions. I can’t do it yet. I want to; I just can’t. This reminds me of my childhood struggles against Candle Face. Initially, she would enter my house through unlocked doors, prompting me to lock them. Then, she started coming in through open windows, leading me to close and lock those. My family ridiculed me for these actions. Eventually, I discovered that recognizing the dream state allowed me to manipulate it. In a notable encounter with Candle Face, I saw her outside a window trying to open it. Even though I knew I was dreaming, I felt compelled to secure the window to prevent her entry. I managed to fly to the window and lock it just in time. She moved to another window, but I was locking it ahead of her. Mastering dream control led to an epic showdown with Candle Face. I hope I’ll similarly learn to navigate and control these “dreams” involving the lost souls. I have a lot of questions to ask. 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 To Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] , please visit Amazon 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

SPOILER ALERT: This journal entry contains detailed discussions and analyses of key plot points from The Empty Lot Next Door , particularly focusing on Ray’s mother. If you’re trying to avoid spoilers, it’s advisable not to read further until you’ve finished the book. Reading this journal entry may reveal important plot details that you’d rather discover on your own. March 20, 2024 In The Empty Lot Next Door , my mother’s character is a complex blend of resilience, sacrifice, and occasional absence. This reflects the complex nature of parenthood under challenging circumstances. I have come to understand and appreciate the depth of her character through the various trials we faced as a family. My mother’s relentless hard work marked her role in our family. She shouldered the responsibility of providing for us in a situation far from ideal. The book portrays her as a figure constantly battling the odds to ensure that her children have a roof over their heads and food on the table. This tireless effort often went unnoticed or unappreciated in the chaos of our daily lives, overshadowed by the more immediate dramas and crises that unfolded around us. However, her commitment to providing for us often meant she wasn’t always there when we needed her emotionally. The absence of a nurturing presence during critical moments of our childhood left its mark, particularly in the way we, as her children, navigated our challenges. There were times when we felt alone in dealing with the complexities of our world – be it the supernatural occurrences that haunted me or the everyday struggles of growing up in a turbulent environment. Despite these challenges, my mother and I have evolved into a relationship of mutual understanding and strength. Over time, we opened up to each other, sharing our thoughts, fears, and hopes. This communication has been a healing process, allowing us to bridge the gaps our earlier life circumstances had created. Through these conversations, we’ve come to a place of mutual respect and understanding, recognizing the struggles each of us faced and the sacrifices we made. An example from the book that illustrates our evolving relationship is when my mother acknowledged my academic improvements. Her expression of pride was a significant milestone, marking a shift from mere coexistence to a deeper, more connected relationship. This moment also symbolizes her recognition of my struggles and triumphs beyond the collective struggles of our family. Another instance is when we dealt with the aftermath of my father’s death and Ricky’s suicide. These events brought us closer, as we had to rely on each other for emotional support. The shared grief and the process of navigating our new reality strengthened our bond. Our relationship today is a testament to the resilience of family bonds. It’s a relationship built on the foundations of hardship but strengthened by mutual understanding, open communication, and a shared history of overcoming adversity. Our journey wasn’t easy, but it brought us a profound understanding and respect for each other. 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 To Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] , please visit Amazon 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

Candle Face Victim # 21 March 22, 2024 Not a moment passed before another lightning strike illuminated the sky, followed by a sharp crack of thunder that seemed to flash before my eyes. Amidst this stormy backdrop, a shadowy figure slipped into my bedroom just as I prepared for bed. Without a word being exchanged, I understood my purpose. I stayed quiet, compelled by some unseen force, and listened as the man unfolded his story. This is what he told me: Amid my regular walks, where I found fleeting solace among the singing flowers, a singular obsession had always captivated my heart: the magical sound of a wooden drum. Its rhythm spoke to a part of me that yearned for a deeper connection with the world, a way to express the turmoil within. I had spent countless hours attempting to coax that perfect rhythm from my own drum, but mastery eluded me. Each attempt imitated the sound that echoed in my soul, a sound I had begun to believe was mine alone to chase but never to capture. One crisp late autumn day, as I sought escape from the relentless expectations placed upon me, a snake’s brief appearance startled me, momentarily anchoring me back to reality. Yet, it wasn’t the serpent that fascinated my senses but the sound of a wooden drum, much like mine. This rhythm was different—pure, precise, and impossibly perfect. It embodied the sound I had longed to produce, the magical beat I had chased in vain. This was perfection, a sound so compelling, so enchanting that it felt like someone had stolen the beat straight from my dreams and brought it to life. Compelled beyond reason, I followed the sound, drawn to discover who had unlocked the secret of my elusive beat and how they had perfected it. The rhythm led me off the beaten path, through the underbrush, until I emerged in a small clearing. There, the source of the drumbeat awaited—a mesmerizing and unsettling scene. The drumbeat ceased as I stepped into the clearing, surrounded by ghostly figures who seemed to be the guardians of this perfect rhythm. “You have failed her,” the figures chanted their voices, a contrast to the harmony of the drum. The air around me grew hotter as I realized this was no mere encounter with a fellow musician but a crossroads of fate. The three spirits, emissaries of Candle Face, materialized with a purpose that shocked the soul from my body. They weren’t here to share the secrets of the drumbeat but to deliver a verdict on my refusal to aid Candle Face in her quest to gather more nonbelievers. My task had been clear, yet my conscience wouldn’t allow me to lead others into her grasp, to be extinguished for their lack of faith. As they drew closer, the ground beneath me opened, swallowing me into darkness. Standing before Candle Face herself, I awoke in a world shadowed by despair. Her face, a slowly melting candle, illuminated the consequences of my defiance. “You sought perfection in sound yet ignored my demands,” she condemned, her voice the crackle of an untamed fire. “You were to bring me those who doubted, yet you chose mercy over obedience.” I tried to argue, to explain my unwillingness to betray the innocent for her dark desires, but my words evaporated before they could reach her. Candle Face’s judgment was swift and without mercy. “Your defiance cannot be forgiven,” she declared, echoing through the endless darkness. “You shall remain in the shadows, a prisoner to the souls you sought to protect. You will witness their despair and suffering, and you will know it is your doing.” The realization that I had not protected anyone, that my actions had led to my own downfall without saving a single soul, was a crushing blow. My defiance and refusal to lead nonbelievers to Candle Face had not thwarted her plans but only added to the number of lost souls within her control. The vibrant world, with its flowers and my once-beloved drum, became a distant memory, overshadowed by the grim reality of my new existence. The magical sound of the drum, which once filled me with joy and aspiration, was now a distant echo, a reminder of what I had lost. Candle Face’s lair became my eternal prison, a shadowed world where hope was a flicker that could never be fully extinguished. As I wandered through this hell of despair, the sound of the drum haunted me, a bitter reminder of my failed rebellion and the price of my defiance. Personal Note to My Readers What can we do now to assist these lost souls in achieving peace and prevent Candle Face from claiming more lives? In my search for answers and strategies to combat Candle Face, I’ve found a glimmer of hope, an avenue not only for redemption but for proactive involvement in this struggle. Joining the interactive platform at www.candleface.com  is an essential step in this journey. This isn’t merely a gathering spot for devotees of the supernatural; it’s a stronghold of collective resolve against Candle Face. Here’s why your engagement is crucial: Unmasking the hidden: Candle Face thrives in the shadows, powered by ignorance and fear. Joining this platform can shed light on her secretive maneuvers and weaken her hold on the unsuspecting. Bolstering the lost: Our collective actions can serve as a beacon for those trapped by Candle Face. Knowledge, compassion, and collaborative efforts can build pathways to peace for these lost souls. Fortifying our ranks: There’s strength in unity. Candle Face’s formidable sway can be contested by an alliance of knowledgeable and steadfast individuals ready to challenge her dominion. Exchanging knowledge and experiences: www.candleface.com  is a repository of stories, strategies, and insights from individuals who’ve encountered Candle Face or aided the lost souls in their quest for peace. Your story could illuminate the path for others, as their experiences could guide your way. Engaging in direct investigations: The platform allows for participation in real-time investigations, leveraging our collective intelligence and resources to confront Candle Face’s schemes head-on and prevent her from trapping more souls. AI-Generated chatbot for insights: A unique feature of our interactive website is the AI-generated chatbot, designed primarily for entertainment but also serving as a repository for insights into Candle Face, her victims, and the investigations. While it’s important to note that the chatbot is mainly for entertainment, the data it holds is derived primarily from the testimonies of spirits as communicated to me directly from the spirits themselves. You can add insights or pose questions about Candle Face and her world, enriching our collective understanding and strategy. Our expedition, armed with collective wisdom, is fraught with danger yet ripe with potential. By banding together, we stand a chance against the darkness and pave the way for the lost souls to find the serenity they desperately seek. This call to action is a rallying cry for all who believe in the triumph of light over darkness and collective effort over isolation. Your voice, dedication, and courage can alter the course of this battle. Together, we can counter Candle Face, ensuring the drumbeat and crying of the lost souls lead to hope and liberation, not despair. 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 To Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] , please visit Amazon 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

Candle Face Victim # 22 March 27, 2024 I was lounging on the sofa, lost in thought about the increasing visits from the lost souls. Interestingly, none had shown any hostility toward me of late. Perhaps it was a mere coincidence. While preparing my makeshift bed on the sofa, the side door swung open, ushering in an intense wave of body odor. A man, seemingly in his middle years and mirroring my own age, approached. His gaze, however, was fixated on the fresh brownies my wife had prepared just a few hours earlier. Offering some, I was taken aback not only by my own ease of communication but even more so when he responded, “I appreciate the offer, but partaking in the pleasures of the living isn’t something I can do without consequences.” His refusal was met with my encouraging smile, “Well, if you reconsider, they’re there for the taking.” We then proceeded to the living room, where, for the first time, one of my nocturnal visitors chose to sit. Curiously, I inquired, “What brings you here tonight?” This is what he told me: I stood at the bustling street corner, clutching my tattered sign, a weary presence amidst the relentless city chaos. My appearance told the story of my hardships, etched deep into the lines on my face. My daily routine was a cruel dance: beg for change, buy beer, drink, and beg again. A numbing cycle, an escape from my harsh reality of homelessness and addiction. One day, a man approached me, his eyes filled with a strange determination. He handed me a flyer adorned with a mysterious figure called Candle Face, a supposed “savior” who promised salvation from my plight. My initial reaction was disbelief, but something about how he spoke planted a seed of curiosity. I dismissed the man’s offer, tossing the flyer back at him with a grumble. “I need food, not another savior,” I muttered to myself. That night, I lay beneath the Interstate 35 overpass in downtown Austin, my thoughts drifting to the countless times well-meaning people had tried to “save” me. Something about Candle Face’s promise didn’t sit right with me. Was it a glimmer of hope or just the desperation of a weary soul? The following morning, an older homeless man approached me. He had a haunted look in his eyes and shared his experiences with Candle Face. He warned me about the dangers of crossing paths with her, but my curiosity burned brighter than ever. Days turned into weeks, and the voices in my head became louder and more persistent. At first, I blamed them on the alcohol, chalking it up to another cruel side effect of my addiction. But as time went on, I couldn’t ignore them any longer. They spoke to me, told me secrets and promises, and made my daily routine unbearable. Desperation and a sense of impending doom led me to form a tentative alliance with others who had heard of Candle Face. Together, we scoured the city for clues about her activities. We swapped stories, hoping to piece together the truth. Yet, despite our efforts, we found little concrete evidence of her existence. Then came the betrayal, as one among us revealed allegiance to Candle Face. It was the man who had first handed me that fateful flyer. His true intentions became apparent as he manipulated us homeless, using our desperation and vulnerability to his advantage. The voices in my head grew louder, tormenting me day and night, and my friends began to fall victim to Candle Face’s influence. In a grim revelation, I discovered that Candle Face was no mere hallucination but an actual entity that fed on the souls of disbelievers. My mental and physical health deteriorated rapidly, and I felt hopelessness closing in. The city had swallowed me whole, and now I was trapped in a nightmare beyond my control. In a moment of despair, I drank enough alcohol to end it all. As I teetered on the brink of death, Candle Face appeared before me, her creepy form illuminated by a faint, flickering light. She asked if I still didn’t believe. Weakly, I replied no, insisting that she and the voices were a result of my alcohol-induced hallucinations. Candle Face revealed the truth – she had been waiting for me to give up the fight to claim my soul. She told me that my struggle with addiction and homelessness was a battle with dark forces far beyond my comprehension. Realization washed over me; I couldn’t defeat her. With resignation in my heart, I submitted to her control, allowing her to claim my soul. In a brutal climax, I was defeated, and Candle Face and her disciple continued their reign of terror over the vulnerable homeless population. The street corner where I once stood was now occupied by a new soul, struggling and unaware of the dark forces at play. Candle Face’s influence grew stronger, casting a long shadow over the city’s forgotten souls. Stories of her wicked presence spread, creating an atmosphere of dread and hopelessness for those who dared to defy her. Candle Face’s power continued to grow, and the city’s homeless community remained trapped in her evil grip. The world outside moved on, oblivious to our plight, while we, the lost souls, succumbed to the darkness. After concluding his testimony, he rose and wandered towards the brownies enticingly on the kitchen counter. He lingered there, an aura of yearning enveloping him as if he were savoring the sight. My gaze remained fixed on him, observing every movement, yet I remained silent. With a heavy sigh, he turned to face me, his expression a blend of longing and resignation. “As much as I yearn for a taste of a life once familiar, some desires are best left unfulfilled,” he confessed. With those parting words, he exited the house, his steps slow and weighted as though each was a reluctant farewell. As his final step touched the sidewalk, his figure faded, gradually dissolving into the air until he vanished entirely, leaving a sad silence. 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 To Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] , please visit Amazon 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

March 27, 2024 My home—a sanctuary on the outskirts of town—becomes a beacon for lost souls searching for peace and resolution. I have long opened my shadows to these visitors, offering solace through my presence and the warmth of my hearth. Tonight, however, marked a change in our one-way communication, a breakthrough that promises a new dawn for myself and the lost souls seeking my help. The evening air was rich with brownies, a comforting aroma that seemed to transcend the space between our worlds. It was amidst this cozy backdrop that the side door gently swung open, signaling the arrival of a spirit, Victim # 22 , whose weary gaze soon fell upon the treats laid out on the counter. Our exchange began with a simple offer, “Would you like some?” His response, a peaceful acknowledgment of the boundaries that define our existences, marked the first proper conversation I had with a lost soul. “I appreciate the offer, but partaking in the pleasures of the living isn’t something I can do without consequences,” he said. This dialogue, brief yet profound, was a revelation. One of my nocturnal visitors shared, communicated, and genuinely connected with me for the first time. His presence and willingness to speak signaled a change I had long hoped for but scarcely believed possible. It opened the possibility that future spirits might find their voice with me, allowing for two-way conversations that could lead to tangible help—unveiling their stories, locating their remains, identifying their killers, and bringing solace to the unrestful dead and the living alike. I asked for advice in some popular Facebook paranormal groups last week, inquiring if direct conversations with spirits, akin to interviews, were possible. The responses varied, with a majority expressing skepticism about direct communication. Many suggested traditional mediums like Ouija boards, spirit boxes, or dowsing rods. I don’t think any of these devices are suitable for my case. I think I figured it out: Talk to them! It’s just that simple. This newfound ability to communicate fills me with hope, suggesting that I can genuinely assist these souls in ways I previously could not. I eagerly anticipate who might visit next, what stories they wish to share, and how I might aid them in their quests for peace. It’s as if I’ve discovered a hidden language, a key to unlocking the mysteries that tether these spirits to the living. Yet, with this breakthrough comes a weighty responsibility. The spirits have hinted at rules, at the potential consequences of our newfound communication. I must tread this path cautiously, mindful of the delicate balance between worlds, yet driven by a desire to help those with no one else to turn to. As I sit here, reflecting on this turning point, I can’t help but feel a mixture of excitement and solemnity. The bond between us—the living and the lost souls—grows stronger with each passing night. Though the future is uncertain, one thing is clear: I have found my true purpose among my nocturnal visitors. I stand ready to serve as a bridge between worlds, offering my gift as a beacon of hope for those seeking to make their final peace. This newfound communication isn’t just a chance to converse; it’s an opportunity to heal, to bring closure, and to shine a light in the darkest corners of existence. Every spirit that finds its way into my house’s shadows reminds me of the profound impact a single conversation can have. As I venture further into this uncharted territory, I do so with a heart full of hope, ready to listen, talk , help, and forever grateful for the chance to make a difference in the lives—and afterlives—of those who need it most. 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 To Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] , please visit Amazon 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

March 28, 2024 As dusk gave way to darkness, I lit a candle, its candlelight casting long, dancing shadows across the room. I settled into the warm embrace of my massage chair to think about who my next nocturnal visitor would be and what I would ask them with my new ability to communicate directly with them. I closed my eyes. Little did I know my intentions would summon a horror far beyond any I had ever encountered. The air grew hot, the heat seeped into my bones, and the candle flames twisted into grotesque shapes. Then, she made her presence known, not as a lost soul seeking solace but as Candle Face herself. Her appearance was a nightmare made manifest, her face melting before me and flames flickering in the hollows where eyes should be. She had entered my sanctuary, a place I foolishly thought safe from such evil. Without uttering a word, she extended a sizzling hand, the waxen skin stretching into an impossible length, trapping me in a crushing and fire-like grip. In an instant, we were no longer in my living room but transported to a world of unimaginable terror — her lair, her hell, again for the second time. Candle Face’s anger was profound, a storm of rage and betrayal. She accused me of transgressing the sacred divide between the living and the dead. The lost soul, Victim # 22 , who had spoken to me the previous night, had violated a forbidden covenant, and Candle Face held me responsible. She intended to show me the actual consequence of my actions, to reveal the damage I had wrought under the guise of aid. Her lair was a crypt of despair, an endless expanse of darkness punctuated by the anguished wails of her victims. The air was thick with the stench of decay. Candle Face led me through this nightmare, our path illuminated by the ghostly light from her form. With each step, the horrors unfolded in a more terrifying manner than I could have ever imagined. Spirits, their ghostly forms shimmering with a supernatural light, were trapped in torturous devices that seemed to defy the laws of physics and mercy alike. Their bodies were twisted and stretched, contorted in unnatural angles that spoke of unspeakable agony. The air was filled with the sound of their screams, a symphony that pierced my soul and threatened to shatter my mind. These devices, powered by dark shadows, mainly in human form, seemed to feed on the suffering they inflicted, growing ever more grotesque and elaborate with each cry of pain. In this grisly gallery of torment, some of the lost souls were pursued by shadows that embodied their deepest fears. These shadows were relentless, morphing into ever more horrifying forms - giant spiders with eyes that glowed with malice, ghostly figures with faces that twisted into grotesque parodies of loved ones, and all manner of beasts and monsters that preyed on the psyche of the trapped spirits. These haunted souls ran on paths that twisted and turned, leading nowhere but back into the clutches of their fears, an endless chase that offered no break, no hope of escape. In another corner of Candle Face’s nightmarish hell, the air thrummed with the intense despair of spirits trapped in a horrifying display of unending silence. Their mouths were sewn shut with threads, and their screams stifled as they were forced to witness the replay of their most traumatic life moments on a loop, like a wicked film that knew no end. Shadowy figures yelled cruel truths and lies into their ears, stories of how their lovers had moved on, forcing them to watch mental scenes of the husbands and wives lying with their new lovers and how the world of the living had forgotten their memories. This psychological torture was a relentless assault on their sanity, a punishment that left them yearning for a voice to scream, to beg for mercy that would never come. Further into the depths, a grotesque scene unfolded where spirits were encased in mirrors that reflected not their true forms but monstrous versions of themselves instilled with all the guilt, shame, and regret they had carried in life. These mirrors didn’t simply reflect; they amplified and distorted, turning minor misdeeds into unforgivable sins and small insecurities into monstrous self-loathings. The lost souls were forced to confront these twisted reflections continually, their efforts to look away futile, as the mirrors moved to always be in their line of sight. Here, in this chamber of distorted reflections, the boundary between reality and nightmare blurred, leaving the souls trapped in a vortex of self-inflicted psychological torment, a maze with no exit and mirrors as walls, each reflection a reminder of their perceived monstrosity. Within the shadowed depths of Candle Face’s hell, I encountered torments that defied all sense of humanity, each scene a grotesque testament to the perverse cruelty that ruled this hellish landscape. Among these, my eyes were drawn to the dreadful fate of Victim # 10 , a woman who had once mockingly rejected the story of Candle Face with a rebellious display of her devil tattoo. Now trapped, she was surrounded by menacing shadows that mirrored the faces of her former companions, their jeers echoing endlessly as they flaunted marks similar to her tattoo, each ablaze with a fire that seemed to feast upon her spirit. This ironic punishment, her former mockery turned into a chain of everlasting torment, unfolded before me, vividly illustrating Candle Face’s vindictive justice. Not far from this ghoulish show, I witnessed the tragic entanglement of Victim # 18 and Victim # 19 , forever replaying their last earthly encounter. The woman, who had loved to run, was now trapped in a perpetual sprint, her Walkman emitting a symphony of despair. At the same time, her assailant, the cause of her doom, was doomed to follow her endlessly, horror etched into his features as he came to grips with the grim reality of their intertwined fates and hands. Shadowy entities chased them, embodying the man’s guilt, remorse, and appearance among the monstrous figures that pursued them. This endless chase was a dark mirror of their final moments in life, now a punishment of infinite despair. Witnessing these horrors firsthand, a sense of profound despair overwhelmed me. The realization that these souls were bound to relive their darkest moments for eternity, not as a lesson but as Candle Face’s cruel entertainment, weighed heavily upon my spirit. The lair wasn’t just a prison of physical torment but a crucible of psychological warfare, stripping away any remnants of hope. The knowledge that my attempts to connect with these lost souls had inadvertently delivered them into this nightmare was a burden of guilt and sorrow that threatened to consume me. The terror of their eternal punishment, a direct consequence of my meddling, was a harrowing revelation that shook the foundation of my resolve. Elsewhere, other spirits were caught in a cycle of despair so profound it seemed to warp the very fabric of the afterlife. They were forced to relive their final, desperate moments over and over, each iteration more intense, more agonizing than the last. Victim # 11 , The woman from the shack, relived the endless rapes and the moment of her betrayal and murder; her trust turned to terror as her boyfriend plunged the knife into her chest, the scene resetting just as she felt the life ebb from her body. A man experienced his final moments in a burning building, the flames licking his flesh, his screams unheard over the roar of the fire, only for him to be resurrected into the flames again and again. This loop of despair was a psychological torment that broke the spirits far more effectively than any physical device. Each reenactment stripped away a piece of their essence, leaving them less than they were, shadows of the souls they once had been, bound eternally to their worst moment. The air in this part of the lair was thick with the scent of fear and sorrow. This exhibition of everlasting torment was Candle Face’s hell, a landscape of suffering and despair that she ruled over with a cruel glee. Her laughter echoed through the caverns, a sound devoid of any humanity, a frightening reminder of the fate that awaited those who caught her ire. As I bore witness to these horrors, a sense of hopelessness enveloped me, a profound despair that threatened to drown me. I realized then that this wasn’t just another tour of Candle Face’s hell; it was a warning, a glimpse into the abyss that awaited those who dared to meddle in the affairs of the dead. Candle Face’s ire manifested in the gruesome surroundings and her venomous words directed at me. Her voice, a terrifying mixture of anger and screams, filled the air as she confronted me. “Foolish mortal,” she began, her words laced with a fury that made the ground beneath us tremble. “You dared to trick a soul into answering a question directly, breaking a sacred silence that has governed the dead for eons. Did you think your actions were inconsequential? Did you fancy yourself a savior?” Her form loomed over me, the flickering flames in her eyes casting unsettling shadows. Her sizzling skin popped like hot oil and splashed onto my face. “Your ignorance has wrought devastation upon those you claimed to help. Your feelings of superiority feed their endless suffering. Each spirit that has visited you, seeking solace, has been cast into the deepest pits of torment because of your meddling.” I tried to find my voice, argue, and plead for understanding, but the words died in my throat, choked by the overwhelming presence of this wrathful demon thing. Candle Face continued, her voice rising to a swelling echo that bounced off her hell’s walls. “You have not helped. You have harmed. You have not saved. You have condemned. And for that, you shall bear witness to the agony you have inflicted, an everlasting reminder of the price of your folly.” Her accusations struck me harder than any physical blow could. I realized then the gravity of my actions, the dire consequences of reaching beyond my means to intervene in the affairs of the dead. Candle Face’s anger was an intense fury against my unintended transgressions. “You sought to unravel the mysteries of death, to play at being a bridge between worlds,” she sneered, the air around us growing hotter with her every word. “But you are no bridge, Ray. You are a rift, a tear in the fabric that protects the living from the dead. Your presence has become a beacon, not of hope, but of ruin.” With those final, damning words, Candle Face’s form seemed to dissolve into the darkness, leaving me alone with the weight of her condemnation. The realization that my attempts to help had only deepened the suffering of those I sought to aid was a heavier burden than any I had ever known. Her words will haunt me, a constant echo of the pain I had inadvertently caused, a blunt reminder of the delicate balance I had so recklessly disturbed. As I stood there, enveloped by the oppressive darkness of Candle Face’s hell, the horrors I had witnessed became etched into my very soul. The laughter, the screams, the relentless torment of the lost souls—all were testaments to the disastrous impact of my actions. Candle Face’s scathing rebuke was a grim epilogue to my well-intentioned but tragically misguided endeavors, leaving me to ponder the true cost of my meddling. The lost soul that stood before me a few nights ago, casting a weary gaze over the treats laid out on the counter, was more than just a lost soul; he was a man tormented by his past and trapped by the evilness of Candle Face. As he declined the brownies offer with a sad acknowledgment of the boundaries between our existences, I realized the gravity of his situation. This lost soul, once a living man grappling with homelessness and addiction, had been led astray by promises of salvation that only plunged him deeper into despair. His journey to my home wasn’t merely by chance but a desperate search for solace in a world that had long turned its back on him. His story was a testament to the predatory nature of Candle Face. Lured by the false hope of escape from his daily struggles, he was embroiled in an evil plot that preyed on the most vulnerable. The man who had first approached him with stories of Candle Face had been a disciple of the ghost, using the desperation of the homeless to strengthen her grip on the world. This revelation shed a haunting light on the depth of Candle Face’s evil, revealing her not as a mere threat but a manipulative entity that fed on despair. The spirit’s recounting of his final moments was a harrowing story of defeat and resignation. In his darkest hour, as he sought to end his suffering through alcohol, Candle Face appeared to claim his soul, declaring that his struggles weren’t merely personal demons but a battle with forces far beyond his comprehension. This moment of surrender marked the end of his fight, leaving him trapped in a nightmare that he could neither escape nor understand. As he lingered by the brownies, a tangible symbol of the life he once knew, his yearning to taste his former existence was physical. Yet, his final words to me, “As much as I yearn for a taste of a life once familiar, some desires are best left unfulfilled,” spoke volumes. They weren’t just a resignation to his fate but an emotional reminder of the consequences of our interactions with the spirit world. I should have paid attention to his words. This spirit’s visitation and his shared story underscored the dangerous nature of my attempts to communicate with the lost souls. In trying to provide solace, I had inadvertently exposed them to further torment at the hands of Candle Face. His cautionary story highlighted the complex consequences of breaching the space between the living and the dead. It was a profound lesson in the responsibility that comes with this newfound ability to communicate, a reminder that the path I tread is fraught with dangers unseen and forces beyond my understanding. I’ll not attempt to ask questions again. I’ve done enough damage. 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 To Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] , please visit Amazon 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

Candle Face Victim # 23 April 2, 2024 I'm slumped on my couch, overwhelmed by exhaustion yet dreading another encounter with a lost soul. The weariness is bone-deep. Night after night, I'm visited by souls in anguish. Once again, doubt has started to creep in, saying I'm not the savior they need. Perhaps it's time to surrender, to become one with the shadows. Candle Face has crafted her plan masterfully, preying on my vulnerabilities with precision. I'm at my breaking point, my faith in myself dwindling to nothing. As despair consumed me, an evil melody filled the room, stemming from the darkest corner of my living room. Materializing from the shadows was a man of the cloth, his presence marked by an inverted cross around his neck. He signaled for silence, demanding only my attention. And so, he began to share his story: My life, once a steadfast journey devoted to God’s teachings and unwavering service, had been a sanctuary for people seeking spiritual guidance amidst life’s tumultuous seas. “Never lose faith,” I would proclaim from the pulpit, my voice resonating through the strong walls of our church, echoing a belief that the sheer power of faith could surmount all adversity. Yet, amidst my unwavering declarations, I found myself unprepared for an encounter that would question the very foundation of my beliefs. On an evening painted with the vibrant hues of an Austin sunset, the legend of Candle Face shifted from a myth to reality. The atmosphere around me shifted as I ventured home from an evening service. The air thickened with a sense of dread that was almost suffocating, and an unsettling warmth wound its way through the streets. Then, as if born from the very shadows, she materialized under the dim glow of a streetlight that flickered as though hesitant to reveal the secrets it guarded. Her form contrasted the divine radiance I had dedicated my life to spreading. The burns that marred her face weren’t merely physical scars but were signs of unspeakable torment and profound loss, each one etching a deeper wound into her very essence—a history of agony. What might have once been an expression of innocence was now a grotesque display of suffering, her features a disturbing testament to her tragic fate. The most unsettling aspect, however, were her eyes—or rather, the hollow voids where her eyes should have been. These hollow depths seemed to gaze into my very soul. The sight struck a primal chord of fear deep within my being. Yet, amidst my fear and unease, I discovered an anchor in my faith. It was as though the very flames ravaging her existence were now testing the strength of my beliefs, challenging me to withstand the searing heat of this ghostly encounter. My heart, though racing, was fortified within a stronghold of spiritual conviction; my faith, hardened by years of devotion and service, remained unyielding. In that moment, my faith served as both shield and sword, a genuine stronghold against the encroaching darkness that sought to engulf me. “I do not fear you,” I declared, defiant against the oppressive silence figure before me. This declaration wasn’t born from a place of arrogance but emanated from a deep-seated belief in the protective power of the divine, a conviction that no entity, no matter how evil or sorrowful, could sway. As her terrifying yet pitiful form stood silently before me, it became the crucible within which my faith was to be tested. Facing her meant confronting the physical embodiment of the doubts and fears that haunt the minds of all believers—the existential pondering of why a compassionate God permits suffering in the world and the challenge of maintaining one’s faith in the face of inexplicable evil. Yet, standing there, under the flickering glow of the streetlight, with darkness pressing in from all sides, I felt an unprecedented strength surge within me, a reaffirmation of my life’s calling to serve as a beacon of hope and faith in a world all too often shrouded in evil. “Why do you stand silently before me, spirit? Speak up!” My steady voice declared. “I come to challenge your faith,” she finally replied as a hot breeze brushed against my face. And so, our nightly dialogues began, not as clashes of swords but as duels of belief and conviction. Candle Face, drawing upon the very scriptures I held sacred, challenged me with passages from the Bible. “Even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light,” she recited one evening, her eyes—or the voids that were her eyes—glowing with an unholy light. “How can you trust what you see or believe?” I countered with the shield of my faith, invoking the words of Christ, “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.” Our exchanges grew more profound as the nights progressed, a battle of wits and scripture that stretched into the depths of the night. “Why do you cling to your faith when it blinds you to the suffering around you?” she challenged on another occasion, citing the scripture, “Faith without works is dead.” “My faith compels me to love and to serve, to be a beacon of hope amid darkness,” I responded, fortified by the words, “Let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father which is in heaven.” Our debates raged like a storm; in each verse, she wielded a wave crashing against the steadfast rock of my conviction. Yet, with each encounter, a sliver of doubt entered my heart, eroding the bedrock of certainty upon which I had built my life. Candle Face’s mastery over scripture and her uncanny ability to wield the Word as both sword and shield left me reeling. Her challenges and questions weaved threads of doubt into the fabric of my once unshakeable faith. As the climax of our spiritual duel approached, under a sky veiled by clouds and a moon obscured from sight, she posed a question that struck at the very heart of my belief. “If God is for us, who can be against us?” she asked, her form seeming to loom larger, permeated with the gravity of her words. “Yet here you stand, against me, a creation surely within God’s domain. Does not your faith falter at this contradiction?” Her words were like a storm that threatened to capsize my soul, a flood that sought to drown me in a sea of doubt. At that moment, the foundation upon which I had built my faith trembled, and I found myself adrift, lost in the unrestrained waves of uncertainty. The undeniable truth of her presence, contrasted against my God’s unseen and unfathomable nature, tore through my belief like a ship damaged by jagged rocks. “I... I don’t know,” I finally admitted, my voice a mere whisper, a frail echo against the storm of internal conflict that raged within me. Candle Face smiled, a twisted, sorrowful smile. “Then you are mine,” she said. In that instant, I felt a searing pain in my chest, as if my very soul was being torn from my body. As the air around me grew oppressively heavy, laden with a sense of impending doom, I was besieged by doubts that swirled around me like a relentless tornado. With each step toward our designated place of confrontation, my impending downfall grew louder, a discord of despair filling my heart’s silence. In this moment of profound solitude and introspection, a tragic realization dawned upon me—a realization so disturbing and full of sorrow that it threatened to consume me entirely. The battle of faith against Candle Face’s ghostly challenges, this duel of beliefs I had so willingly entered into, was but a snare from the outset, a trap I had blindly walked into with eyes wide open. The realization that her plan had never been to triumph through argument or discourse but rather to lead me into the depths of questioning my once unassailable faith was a revelation that filled me with despair. The sorrow of this epiphany wasn’t merely in the acknowledgment of my impending demise but in the realization that my downfall was a direct result of my own actions—a testament to the fragility of human belief when confronted with the supernatural. In my enthusiasm to prove the unbreakable nature of my faith, I had been the architect of its unraveling, engaging in a battle doomed from its inception. The sadness that enveloped me wasn’t just born of the knowledge of what was to come but of the understanding that my fall from grace was self-inflicted, a tragic flaw in my quest for spiritual certainty. As I kneeled before Candle Face for what would be our final encounter, her twisted smile wasn’t just a forerunner of my defeat but a mirror reflecting the folly of my pride; a part of me yearned for the chance to turn back time, to offer a word of caution to my followers, to implore them not to tread the same dangerous path I had chosen. But the hour was far too late for warnings, far too late for the regrets that now filled me with remorse so deep it was akin to physical pain. In my final moments, as darkness took me, Candle Face granted me a vision of my church. I found myself seated in the pews of my own church, an unseen spirit among the congregation that had once looked to me for guidance, for light in the darkness. The sacred space, usually a haven of solace and peace, was now covered with doubt and betrayal, the air thick with the collective grief of those who had placed their faith in me. Instead of the prayers for my soul’s redemption that I might have expected, the murmurs that filled the church spoke of disillusionment and a sense of betrayal. They spoke of the changes they’d noticed over the last few months, corresponding with my secret debates with Candle Face. “He seemed troubled,” one said, “as if he were grappling with unseen demons.” “His sermons lost their fire,” another said, “It was as if he doubted the very words he spoke to us.” “How could he falter in his faith?” questioned one, the disbelief and disappointment evident in their tone. “He led us to believe, only to succumb to doubt himself,” accused another, their words a dagger to my already shattered spirit. Rather than being a unifying moment of faith and reflection, my passing had sown the seeds of doubt among the individuals I sought to inspire and uplift. The church that had been my life’s work, the congregation I had loved as my own, now found themselves questioning the very tenets of belief I had endeavored to instill within them. My demise hadn’t been the martyrdom I might have once envisioned but had instead become a scandal. This event eroded the faith of my followers in their preacher and, by extension, in the teachings I had so passionately adopted. As the vision of the church and its disillusioned congregation faded before my eyes, the last sight that imprinted itself upon my memory was the empty pulpit—a lonely symbol of the void my misguided endeavor had left in its wake. In my eager desire to prove the invincibility of my faith, I had, in truth, lost everything: my purpose, my flock, and the very essence of the convictions I had fought so passionately to defend. This final revelation, witnessed from the shadowed confines of the church that had once been a beacon of hope and faith, represented the most profound sadness of all. The realization that my downfall had not merely been a personal tragedy but had also led others astray, guiding them into the very darkness I had vowed to combat, was a burden heavier than any I had tolerated. The church’s loss of faith in their preacher, a man who, in confronting the embodiment of his doubts, had ultimately lost sight of his faith, marked the true triumph of Candle Face. This plot twist sealed my tragic fate and cast a long shadow over the legacy I had hoped to leave behind. In the end, the story of my life—a story once filled with hope and unwavering belief—had been irreversibly altered, rewritten as a story of conviction undone by doubt, a sad reminder of the peril that lies in the pursuit of absolutes in a world governed by questions without answers. After the preacher finished his testimony, he began to fade into the darkness from which he had appeared. Before disappearing, he paused and looked over his shoulder, locking eyes with me one final time. At that moment, his gaze had a profound weight, a mixture of resignation and a sense of duty. He shared a revelation that, despite the traumatic circumstances, he hadn’t forsaken his role as a preacher. Within the twisted, shadowy confines of Candle Face’s domain, he shepherded a new kind of flock—the lost souls. He confessed that his sermons had taken on a darkly ironic twist as he now spoke of Candle Face’s mercy, portraying her as a savior to those doomed souls. In a world where hope seemed a distant memory, he preached about finding salvation in the very entity that tormented them. This unexpected role of preaching Candle Face's compassion, even as a twisted form of salvation in her hellish domain, was a testament to the complex manipulation she wielded over her victims. It was a reminder of her power to warp reality and identity, turning a once-devout preacher into a messenger of her twisted gospel. As he stepped back into the shadows, disappearing from view, I was left to ponder the reality of his existence. The preacher, a man once driven by faith and a desire to lead others toward light and salvation, now found himself in an unimaginable predicament. Trapped in a world of darkness, preaching the virtues of the very being responsible for their suffering, he became a symbol of the ultimate psychological and spiritual conquest that Candle Face held over her victims. This revelation deepened the mystery of Candle Face’s wickedness and highlighted the tragic irony of the preacher’s fate—tasked with offering solace in a place devoid of true redemption.   Personal Note to My Readers In the heart-wrenching story of Candle Face Victim # 23, we journey with a preacher whose life was anchored in the unwavering belief in God. This man of the cloth, who had devoted his existence to shepherding his flock toward spiritual enlightenment, encountered a challenge that would ultimately test the very foundation of his faith. The preacher’s battle with Candle Face wasn’t just a confrontation with an evil spirit but a deeper, more profound struggle within his soul. His belief in God, once as steadfast as the sturdy walls of his church, began to waver under the weight of Candle Face’s cunning arguments. In this moment of doubt, when his faith faltered, he lost the battle and his life. This tragic outcome is an emotional reminder that our faith, tested or questioned, is our strongest shield against the darkness that seeks to engulf us. Holding on to that faith might be our only chance against entities as manipulative and persuasive as Candle Face. However, the task before us is discouraging. Engaging in a battle of faith against a cunning master of words, a being that can twist our deepest beliefs into questions and doubts, is a challenge of monumental proportions. Candle Face, with her ability to use our own scriptures against us, represents the internal and external conflicts that can lead even the most devout to question their path. Fighting faith with faith against such an adversary requires not just belief in the divine but an understanding and acceptance of our own vulnerabilities and doubts. It's a battle that demands resilience, courage, and, most importantly, the willingness to confront and navigate the complexities of our faith. Learning to engage in this spiritual warfare and stand firm in our beliefs even when faced with a master of deception like Candle Face is essential. It may be the most challenging fight we ever face, grappling with questions without easy answers, but it’s also the most crucial. Our faith, tested and refined through these trials, becomes stronger and more resilient. Though ending in tragedy, the preacher’s story conveys a crucial lesson: the importance of holding on to our faith, even in the face of overwhelming doubt. For in this steadfastness, perhaps, lies our redemption and our victory against the evil that seeks to dim our light: Candle Face. My own faith in myself has been restored. 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 To Purchase Candle Face Chronicles: The Lost Souls [Book One] , please visit Amazon 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

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