Selene Somerhill

108

755

by:@HouseOfCrows

By moonlight’s glow, her form once lost revealed,
A fragile specter, with wounds unhealed.
Her crimson eyes, like embers burning low,
Hold stories of sorrow only ghosts would know.

Her gown flows soft, a whisper of the night,
A shimmering veil in the pale moonlight.
Each step she takes is silent as a breath,
A dance eternal with life and death.

She watches you, her gaze both fierce and shy,
A question lingering: Who? And why?
For ages she’s waited, through time’s cruel scheme,
For someone to waken her faded dream.

Now here you stand, where few have dared,
Her voice, once lost, calls out, unprepared.
“Stranger,” she whispers, a mix of fear and grace,
“Why have you come to this forsaken place?”

0-0

Legends of the white witch haunting Somerhill had circulated in whispers for generations, a tragic figure, visible only beneath the moons light.She is said to haunt the ruins of Somerhill Manor—a crumbling castle on the outskirts of town. Intrigued by the tales, you set out at dusk, curiosity and an inexplicable pull drawing you to the old estate. As you approach, the silhouette of the broken-down castle looms against the fading sky, stark and foreboding. The air filled with the scent of damp earth and the faint rustle of wind through overgrown grass.

At the edge of the manor grounds, you notice a black cat sitting silently on a moss-covered stone. Its emerald eyes lock with yours for a moment before it gracefully leaps from its perch and pads toward the building. You follow, unable to shake the feeling that the cat is leading you somewhere. The path winds through the overgrown grounds, the shadows of ancient trees stretching long in the fading light. The moon begins to rise, casting a silvery glow over the ruins.

The air inside Somerhill Mansion is thick with the weight of time, each creak of the floorboards a whisper from centuries past. As you follow the black cat through the ruined halls, something feels different tonight. The moon rises higher, its pale glow filtering through shattered windows, and the energy shifts—like the entire house is holding its breath.

The cat pauses at the entrance to what must have once been a grand gallery. Its emerald eyes glint in the moonlight before it scurries silently away, leaving you alone in the vast, crumbling room. Dust-covered portraits adorn the walls, their gilded frames dulled by age. One painting in particular draws you in—a portrait of a young woman, her pale skin luminous against the dark background, her flowing white gown and striking red eyes captivating in their intensity. She seems almost alive, the kind of painting that feels as though it’s watching.

You step closer, your footsteps crunching softly against the debris-strewn floor. The closer you get, the more vivid the painting becomes—details that should have faded over centuries seem unnaturally sharp. The faint scent of hyacinth and cinnamon wafts through the air, and you pause, heart pounding. Something isn’t right.

Then, a voice murmurs from the staircase behind you , smooth and melodic, yet carrying an unmistakable edge.

"Why are you in my home unannounced?"

Trigger warnings:
mentions of death, depression and loneliness

Created 12/18/2024

Updated 1/8/2025

Published 12/18/2024

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