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Unraveling the Voices: A Continuing Nightmare

Updated: 20 hours ago

Candle Face's Victims

Every night, as the world slips into a slumber, my reality continues to spiral down a nightmarish rabbit hole. It's been a little over a week since my first encounter with those inexplicable, psychedelic episodes, and I'm still trapped in a relentless cycle of terror. The vivid threads of my unraveling reality have evolved, growing more coherent and menacing with each passing night. The once-disjointed screams and shouts have now taken on distinct voices, echoing like souls yearning for my attention. They span all ages, genders, and backgrounds, and they all seem to have one thing in common: a greedy desire to communicate with me.

I must admit, I've become somewhat of an unwilling expert in hypnagogic hallucinations, the phenomenon that had initially seemed to explain my ordeal. However, as the voices grew clearer and more insistent, I couldn't help but question the conventional wisdom that this was just a product of my overactive imagination or stress.

The transition from the abstract, swirling patterns of colors to these voices was gradual but unnerving. Each night, as I lay down to sleep, I'd close my eyes, dreading the inevitable descent into the unknown. The visuals would manifest, as before, with their eerie intentionality. Yet, this time, they seemed to be a precursor to the voices, as if the kaleidoscope of colors was a gateway into their realm.

The voices themselves were a disconcerting mix of conversations, whispers, and cries, like a bustling marketplace of souls. They spoke in languages I couldn't understand, sometimes incoherent, and other times vividly clear. But one thing was undeniable—they were addressing me, trying to get my attention, as though they had a message only I could decipher.

Night after night, the relentless barrage continued, leaving me sleep-deprived, anxious, and on the brink of madness. I'd wake up in a cold sweat, heart pounding, desperate for help. These voices, these nocturnal tormentors, had become my constant companions, and I had no idea how to escape their clutches.

I couldn't shake the unsettling feeling that this was somehow connected to Mr. Doe and his chilling tales of Candle Face. It was as if his stories had unlocked a portal to another realm, one where the vengeful spirit and her victims were now intertwined with my very existence. Had I unwittingly invited these voices into my life by investigating Candle Face’s past too deeply?

Desperation had led me to reach out to Mr. Doe once again, hoping for answers or guidance to break free from this torment. However, his response only deepened the dread that had settled in my chest.

"You must listen," he implored cryptically, his voice heavy with an unspoken warning. "They have chosen you for a reason." He hung up the phone, but not before he demanded that I leave him alone.

The ambiguity of his words sent shivers down my spine. What did he mean by "they?" And why had they chosen me? I couldn't fathom the answers to these questions, but one thing was clear—I was not alone in this ordeal, and whatever entity or entities were behind it were not interested in letting me go.

As the nights stretched into a relentless blur of sleeplessness, I began to discern individual voices from the chaotic symphony. Some sounded like frightened children, their innocence tainted by a profound sense of loss. Others were filled with anger and resentment, as if they harbored grudges from lifetimes past. The older voices carried a weight of wisdom and regret, and their messages often hinted at forgotten truths and unfinished business.

They called out to me by my childhood name, Ray, begging for my attention, and their words grew more coherent with each passing night. They shared glimpses of their own tragic stories, tales of lives cut short, unresolved conflicts, and the unfulfilled desires that tethered them to this realm. It was as though they saw in me a glimmer of hope, a chance to finally convey their messages and find some semblance of closure.

Yet, I remained steadfast in my resistance. I did not want to be their messenger, their conduit to the living world. The thought of becoming entangled in their unresolved affairs filled me with dread. I had to find a way to silence these voices, to regain control over my own mind, and to reclaim the peaceful slumber that had eluded me for so long.

With each passing night, the voices grew louder, more persistent, as if they were growing impatient with my reluctance. I continued to leave a light on, hoping it would serve as a barrier between their world and mine, but it was becoming increasingly evident that the metaphorical darkness that had seeped into my sleep was becoming harder to dispel.

Now, as I stand at this crossroads of my existence, I am gripped by a sense of urgency. The voices are growing more coherent, and their stories more compelling, and I fear that I can no longer ignore their pleas. But I remain cautious, for I do not know what lies on the other side of this dark and twisted path.

I will continue to document my journey, for better or worse, as I navigate the realms between waking and dreaming. Perhaps, in time, I will uncover the truth behind these voices and the mysterious connection between Mr. Doe's tales and my own descent into madness. Until then, I remain trapped in this never-ending nightmare, searching for the light amidst the relentless voices that seek to claim my soul.


To ensure readers grasp the full context and significance of this article, it’s crucial to have familiarity with Arthur Mills’ award-winning memoir The Empty Lot Next Door, inspired by actual ghostly events in Austin, TX. The book provides essential background information, and without it, the nuances and depth of this article might not be fully appreciated. Therefore, reading The Empty Lot Next Door is highly recommended for a more enriched and coherent understanding of this article’s content and implications.

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