Candle Face Victim #11: Killed for Disbelieving

Subjects of Interest:

• Candle Face Chronicles

• The Lost Souls

January 11, 2024

Last evening, as I settled down to sleep on the couch, the eleventh ghostly night visitor entered my living room. Her account was by far the most sorrowful and horrifying I’ve encountered. She initiated her testimony amidst heart-wrenching cries of agony. It wasn’t merely a matter of hearing her anguish; for the first time, I experienced the same torment that one of these ghostly visitors endured. It’s a sensation of distress I wish never to undergo again. This is her testimony:

I had always been a product of skepticism. My parents, both rationalists to the core, had drilled into me the importance of questioning everything and seeking logical explanations. And so, throughout my life, I’d adhered to that creed. I questioned, I analyzed, and I doubted. It was second nature, an ingrained part of my very being.

But then I met him.

My boyfriend of two years was a complete contrast to the skeptical lens through which I viewed the world. He was a dreamer who found enchantment and fascination in everyday occurrences that often went unnoticed. He believed in magic and mystery and was unafraid to venture into the supernatural world.

One night, as we sat huddled together in his cozy apartment’s dimly lit living room, our intentions were simple: to watch a series of horror films that would frighten us to our core. Yet, as we journeyed deeper into the night, the lines between our beliefs became ever more distinct.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” he asked, his eyes reflecting the glow of the television.

I let out a scoff, my skepticism solid. “Of course not,” I replied with conviction. “Ghosts are nothing more than figments of our imagination, born from our deepest fears.”

He leaned closer, his voice a conspiratorial undertone. “But consider this. Cultures all around the world believe in ghosts, in spirits that linger after death. They can’t all be wrong.”

I waved away his argument, dismissing it. “Superstitions and folklore,” I countered. “They’re stories concocted to explain the unexplainable, nothing more.”

That night, my boyfriend amused me with a story he’d heard from a friend. It was a frightening story about a spiteful spirit, a young female ghost called Candle Face. According to the story, this ghost torments those who dare not believe in her existence, driving them to madness. Others, she kills outright.

My response was a dismissive scoff and a shake of my head. Ghost stories, I thought, were nothing more than fanciful tales meant to scare the gullible. I couldn’t fathom how anyone could genuinely fear such fantastical notions.

But it wasn’t long before I started having vivid and haunting dreams of Candle Face.

In my first dream, the little girl appeared harmless, almost charming. She sat across from me at a peaceful playground, her tiny fingers playfully pushing grains of sand around. Her face remained veiled in shadow, and she asked, “Do you believe in me?”

Without hesitation, I replied, “No.” It was just a dream, I reasoned. A lingering aftereffect of our movie night, perhaps even a side effect of the chemicals coursing through my veins.

Yet, as the nights passed, Candle Face returned with increasing frequency, her actions growing more disturbing with each visitation. In one particularly vivid dream, she sat atop my chest, her ghostly fingers closing around my throat. I awoke gasping for air, but the sensation of her phantom grip lingered.

And then there was the dream that left its mark, not just on my mind but also on my body. Candle Face lay on top of me, her lips pressing against my neck, leaving grotesque hickeys. In the throes of apparent ecstasy, she whispered in my ear, “You’re going to be famous with the demons in hell.”

I awoke in a cold sweat, my neck adorned with my dream’s peculiar, painful marks. My throat felt constricted, not from fear but from an inexplicable sensation of something tightening around it. I reached up, my fingers tracing the red welts that encircled my neck. I couldn’t bring myself to share the source of these marks with anyone, not even my closest friends or family. They all pointed fingers at my boyfriend, convinced that he was somehow responsible for these injuries.

On an evening in the sweltering heat of July, my boyfriend and I made the impulsive decision to escape the scrutiny and disapproval of our families. Our relationship had always been a point of contention; I was barely eighteen, while he was well into his late twenties. He often surrounded himself with an entourage of acquaintances, some of whom could become somewhat overbearing.

As we settled into a hotel room that night, my boyfriend’s phone rang. He stepped out, his voice carrying an undertone of urgency in what seemed like a casual conversation. When he returned, there was an intense tension in his eyes.

“Some friends are coming over,” he said nonchalantly. Minutes later, three men entered the room. The walls seemed to close in, and an unease settled over me like a heavy fog. I wanted to escape this unsettling situation, but it became evident that they had other intentions.

As I gathered my belongings, the world around me blurred and distorted. The sharp sting of a needle pierced my skin, and a paralyzing lethargy crept over my limbs. They had drugged me, and my consciousness slipped away as they carried me from the hotel room.

The shack they brought me to was a grim and lonely place miles away from Austin. A single, feeble lightbulb hung from the ceiling, casting shadows that danced upon the walls. As my vision cleared and my mind regained focus, I became acutely aware of my vulnerable state – I lie naked, bound to a small bed, with four chairs ominously arranged along the wall.

For the next six days, men visited me one by one, subjecting me to unimaginable horrors. Each chair bore a waiting man, many more likely lurking outside, awaiting their turn. With every violation, every moment of agony, I felt a piece of my soul erode.

Yet, the torment didn’t cease. On the sixth day, a wicked presence manifested in the room, one that went unnoticed by the men. It was Candle Face, moving about with a menacing grace. She would sing haunting lullabies, tenderly caress my face, and, at times, her ghostly fingers would sear into my flesh, leaving behind painful marks.

“Why?” I managed to ask Candle Face as a man had his way with me.

“Because,” she responded with a twisted smile, “my existence becomes more tangible with every scar, every burn, and, in your case, every stroke.”

By the end of the sixth night, the men had all departed. I was alone in that small shack with Candle Face. Candle Face picked up where the men left off for the rest of the night.

At the first light of dawn, the door to the shack creaked open, and the three men returned, accompanied by my boyfriend. His eyes met mine, filled with tears and a depth of betrayal. “You have to finish it,” one of the men said, pushing him forward.

My boyfriend approached me, a knife clutched in his trembling hand. Our gazes locked, and I saw the depth of his betrayal in that heart-wrenching moment. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in my ear as he plunged the knife into my heart.

As life drained from my body, Candle Face loomed over me. “Thank you,” she murmured, her fingers tenderly caressing my hair one last time. “You have made me real.”

My vision faded. Yet, even in death, a profound realization washed over me as I lay in a shallow grave to the right of the shack. We often fear what we don’t understand. But sometimes, the actual monsters aren’t the ones that dwell under our beds or haunt our dreams. They’re the ones who stand beside us and the ones we create through our disbelief and skepticism.

I felt she had more to reveal, but her message was drowned out by the most heart-wrenching sobs I had ever encountered. She offered a faint apology before retreating into the portal, her passage marked by what appeared to be blood smeared across my floor. Compelled to examine it more closely, I switched on the lights, expecting to see the blood. Surprisingly, no blood was visible, yet metallic blood’s unmistakable, fresh scent lingered in the air.

Personal Note to My Readers

This testimony is more than merely recounting a lost soul’s suffering; it’s a plea for justice and closure. This girl’s spirit, whose life was marked by such sadness and terror, reaches out from beyond for help that only we can provide. Her story, filled with pain and fear, is also filled with clues - threads woven into the story that may lead to her physical remains and the identification of those responsible for her death.

Her testimony is a call to action for each of us - to engage in passive reading and active investigation. This young girl’s spirit seeks what many of us take for granted: the peace that comes with justice and the resolution of a life cut tragically short.

Therefore, I implore you, my readers, to investigate her testimony with a keen eye and an open heart. Search for the clues hidden within her words, piece together the puzzle of her tragic end, and join me in this quest to bring her the peace she desperately deserves. We can hope to solve this case through our collective efforts.

This journey isn’t just about solving a case but about righting a wrong and extending compassion beyond the veil of death. It’s a chance for us to make a real difference in the world of spirits and to advocate for those who can no longer speak for themselves.

Together, we can work on this mission of mercy and justice. Your analysis, theories, and discoveries could be pivotal in resolving this tormented soul’s lingering anguish.

Join us at our interactive website and participate in the Candle Face Chronicles' investigations: www.branchingplotbooks.com.