Candle Face Victim #29: Losing Faith in Candle Face

Subjects of Interest:

• Candle Face Chronicles

• The Lost Souls

May 12, 2024

As I settled into the couch, the weight of the day’s worries began to lift, if only slightly. Something made me open my eyes, and when I did, I noticed shadows flickering against the far wall, like the dim light had suddenly become shy. That’s when I saw him—my next lost soul.

He appeared near the window, his form vague and shimmering. He stood there silently, watching me, like he was trying to figure out how I’d react. He clearly had something to share, some unfinished business that had brought him to my living room. I sat up, and he walked over and sat beside me. My gaze locked on his was all the cue he needed to begin.

I first heard the stories of Candle Face on the corner of Congress Avenue and Sixth Street in Austin, TX. A group of fellow homeless folks were gathered around a light post and bench, their eyes haunted as they spoke about a ghostly girl who hunted down anyone who dared to laugh at her existence. I didn’t buy it for a second, so I pushed for more.

The group was led by a woman with piercing blue eyes who talked about Candle Face like she was both something to fear and something to revere. She said the ghost was once a young girl who died in a horrible fire, her face left disfigured. Now, she roamed Austin’s streets, punishing skeptics who didn’t take her story seriously.

I couldn’t help myself. I laughed and called it nonsense. “A ghost that attacks non-believers?” I mocked. “Come on.”

Her expression turned cold. “Mock her, and you’ll see for yourself,” she warned. “But you’ll regret it. She’ll show you, but the cost will be more than you can imagine.”

That night, under Interstate 35, I lay in my tent trying to shake off her words. But the air inside grew heavy, and a strange unease crept over me. Then I heard it—a faint, childlike voice calling my name. My heart started pounding. I sat up, and that’s when I saw her.

Candle Face.

She was horrifying—her face charred and twisted, her eyes hollow and lifeless. She just stood there, staring at me. In her hand, she rolled a needle between her burnt fingers, like she was deciding what to do with it.

“Come with me,” she said in a sad tone.

Suddenly, the world around me shifted. Austin was gone, replaced by some nightmarish version of itself—a city twisted by fire. As I followed her, she started talking, her tone shifting between innocent and commanding. “I do not just want believers,” she said. “I want people who will embrace my story, spread it, make it part of their lives.”

She went on to explain how she wasn’t just a figure of terror. To those who believed, she appeared as a guardian, offering comfort to people drowning in their pain. “For those who have faith in me,” she said, her voice softening, “I am their light, their hope. A way out of their daily suffering.”

But her tone turned icy when she talked about skeptics. “For those who deny me, I am the thing they fear most,” she said flatly. “Mock me, and you will see what happens.”

She revealed how her existence fed on belief and fear. Every story, every ounce of doubt, every mocking laugh—it all made her stronger. “I am born of both reverence and disdain,” she explained. “Every skeptic who denies me only adds to my power.”

She made it clear why she’d chosen me. I was supposed to be her messenger, her voice in the world of the living. She alternated between threatening me and pleading for my help, her manipulative nature impossible to ignore. “Tell my story,” she said. “Make them remember me, and I’ll offer you a warning—and maybe salvation.”

I begged her to let me go, swearing I’d believe, that I’d tell people about her. She laughed—a sound so loud it made my ears hurt—and suddenly, I was back in my tent, drenched in sweat. But her laughter still echoed in my ears.

The next day, I felt different. All my usual pains—the constant headaches, the aches from years of drinking and drug use, the mental fog—they were gone. I felt lighter, healthier, like years of torment had just vanished. It was enough to make me seek out that group I’d mocked the day before.

They welcomed me back, no questions asked. They could see the change in me. And as I listened to their stories, I realized they’d all had their own encounters with Candle Face. Each one was disturbing in its own way, but they had all chosen to believe. They’d become her disciples, spreading her story to keep others from facing her wrath.

I joined them. Night after night, we roamed the streets, sharing her story with anyone who’d listen. We thought we were doing the right thing, that maybe we could save others by spreading her message. But even as I told her story, I couldn’t stop questioning it. Was Candle Face real? Or was she just a reflection of our fears? Something we’d created ourselves?

That doubt was my undoing.

That night, she came to me again. In my dream, her face was even more grotesque than before. She leaned in close and hissed, “You lost faith.”

Before I could speak, her hands were on me. Her charred fingers clamped down on my mouth and nose, cutting off my breath. Her skin was rough, like burnt wood, and the smell of scorched flesh filled the air.

I tried to fight, to scream, but her grip was unrelenting. Her hollow eyes stared into mine, full of cruel satisfaction. Around us, shadows pulsed and shouted in a language I couldn’t understand.

The edges of my vision started to fade, and my heart slowed. I realized too late that Candle Face wasn’t just a story. She was real—relentless and unforgiving. My last thoughts were full of regret, knowing I’d made the ultimate mistake: doubting her.

When everything went dark, I felt the cold sting of a needle in my arm. A grim reminder of the life I’d tried so hard to leave behind.

The lost soul stood up and walked toward the portal in the far corner of the room. His movements were slow, almost hesitant. As he neared it, his shadow stretched out behind him, and I noticed the needle still sticking out of his arm—a haunting reminder of his past.

He paused at the portal’s edge and looked back at me one last time. There was sadness in his eyes, but also a kind of acceptance. Then, without a word, he stepped through. The portal vanished, and the room was silent again, lit only by the soft glow from the kitchen light.