Candle Face Victim #13: The Drowning Ghost’s Story

Subjects of Interest:

• Candle Face Chronicles

• The Lost Souls

February 13, 2024

I’m frozen in front of my laptop right now, the screen’s glow mocking me as the cursor blinks, daring me to type. My hands are trembling too much to form coherent thoughts, and my mind feels trapped in a fog of pure distress. I’m in limbo, waiting for calm and clarity to return.

I’d gone to bed early tonight—exhausted from a day of yardwork, thinking I’d finally earned some peaceful sleep. The past three weeks had been quiet, and I’d started to believe the spirits were giving me a break. There’s been progress, after all: strong leads on Victim #11 and GenX Paranormal Investigations, a paranormal investigation team from the Houston, Texas, area eager to dig into her case. But that break ended tonight.

I must have drifted off when I heard the floorboards creak—a sound I’ve come to associate with my nocturnal visitors. Before I could even sit up, I saw him: a soaking-wet figure standing over me. His ice-cold hands pinned me down by the shoulders, and then, without warning, he slapped me across my face.

What happened next was the most horrific thing I’ve experienced yet. He started vomiting into my mouth. The taste, the sensation—it was unbearable. I gagged and choked, trying to fight him off, but my strength faded quickly. Just as I thought I’d lose consciousness, he relented, only to slap me again, leaving me gasping for air.

His fury was unmistakable. He was angry that I’d neglected his story, and it hit me: he was the same spirit who visited me in late December. I had promised to document his testimony, but I never did. I put it off, and in the weeks that followed, I only mentioned him briefly during a podcast. He wasted no time reminding me of what he’d told me, demanding that I finally write it down.

Under the starry Texas night, the boat rocked gently on the dark waters of the cove. My two sons slept soundly in cozy spots on the boat’s deck. My wife had opted to stay with relatives, leaving me alone with the boys for an overnight boat trip on the west side of Austin. The night was calm, the air crisp, and the distant hum of the city seemed worlds away.

As I gazed at my slumbering sons, I marveled at their innocence and the profound impact our beliefs could have on them. They wanted ghost stories, their young minds craving the thrill of the paranormal. But I, a staunch non-believer in all things supernatural, had scoffed at the notion and scolded them for seeking stories of ghosts and spooks. Instead, I had filled their young minds with stories of real-world politicians and historical figures, thinking it was a better education.

However, one of my sons interrupted me during a particularly dry story about a long-dead statesman. “Please, Dad,” he pleaded, “tell us a ghost story. We’re in the dark, and it’s spooky. We want to hear about Candle Face.”

His younger brother perked up, clutching his teddy bear with wide eyes. I hesitated, momentarily silenced by their earnest desire for something beyond the mundane. Then, with a sigh, I relented and began:

“In the heart of Austin, there was a spooky legend about Candle Face, a ghost who, they said, did spooky things to folks who didn’t believe in her. But there was a boy named William who thought it was all make-believe.”

My sons leaned in, their imaginations fueled by the promise of a ghost story. As I spun the story, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of my own disbelief in the supernatural. My words were just that—words, void of the conviction that would have made the story truly frightening.

I continued, recounting William’s brave journey into the dark creek where Candle Face was rumored to live. The wind blowing across the boat seemed to echo around us as I spoke. I described the ghostly figure, a little girl with a face resembling melted candle wax, and William’s fearless declaration, “I don’t believe in you, Candle Face!” The ghost wailed, and then it vanished. William emerged unscathed.

My story concluded, and my sons exchanged disappointed glances. “Dad, that’s not a scary story,” said my oldest son, crossing his arms.

“Ghosts aren’t real; Candle Face isn’t real,” I asserted, dismissing their concerns. “Come on, time for bed.”

While my sons settled into their sleeping bags, I found myself restless. My familiarity with the water drew me, and a midnight swim beckoned. I dove into the dark waters, the coolness enveloping me. The cove was unnervingly quiet, a contrast to the excitement of the evening.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I noticed something amiss. The knot that had secured my boat to the dock seemed undone. Anxiety coursed through me, and I swam toward the dock, my heart pounding in my chest.

Reaching the dock, I saw a pair of legs, small and delicate. My eyes traveled upward, and there, before me, stood a little girl. Her hair hung in long, tangled strands, obscuring her face. When I finally saw her features, they were marred, as if by fire, and her appearance was strikingly familiar.

It was Candle Face.

Before I could react, her hot, clammy hand gripped my head, and she plunged me back into the water. Panic surged as I struggled to hold my breath, but her strength was unrelenting. She lifted me just before I blacked out, coughing and gasping for air.

Candle Face’s voice, voice like a phantom’s breath, filled the night. “You do not believe. But your life depends on it.”

Paralyzed by fear and confusion, I could only listen as she began to tell her story. It was a tale of tragedy, betrayal, and a restless spirit condemned to wander the world, seeking acknowledgment and belief.

Her story resonated with sadness. She explained how belief could be a lifeline for lost souls like her and how the power of conviction could bridge the gap between the living and the dead.

“Believe in me,” she implored, her ghostly hollow eye sockets burning unnervingly. “Believe, for your life depends on it.”

With trembling limbs and a mind clouded by terror, I stammered, “I...I can’t.”

Candle Face’s grip tightened, and again, she plunged me beneath the water’s surface. Panic and dread overwhelmed me as I struggled to hold my breath again, to hold onto consciousness. She repeated the torment, lifting my head just enough to prolong my agony.

The minutes stretched into an hour, and my strength waned. The ghostly figure showed no mercy. Her story had become my nightmare and belief, a choice I couldn’t make. I had become the protagonist in the very legend I had dismissed, just like so many others in Candle Face’s lair.

Finally, as my vision blurred and my body weakened, Candle Face held my head beneath the water’s surface. I felt the cold embrace of the water, its inky depths swallowing me whole. My world grew dark, and the discord of fear and doubt faded into a watery silence.

As the water closed in around me, I understood that sometimes, disbelief could be the most difficult choice of all.

When his story ended, the spirit stared at me, his face solemn. Water dripped from his mouth as he spoke his final warning: “Pay closer heed to your visitors. Another slip-up, and Candle Face will come for you. Her punishment will be far worse than you can imagine.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into the portal, leaving me shaken.

Personal Note to My Readers

This experience marks a grim milestone: it’s the first time a spirit has hit me. In the past, they’ve been wary of contact, but tonight was different. Tonight, I was struck—twice—and nearly drowned in what I can only describe as ghostly vomit.

As horrifying as it was, I’m strangely thankful it wasn’t worse. I’ve seen what happens to those who ignore their encounters with Candle Face, and their fates are far grimmer than mine. This was a wake-up call—a reminder that delaying these stories isn’t an option.

Candle Face’s anger leaves no room for hesitation. From now on, I’ll make it my priority to document every testimony immediately.