The Widow of Starfall Manor

1-16-26
 The Widow of Starfall Manor
In the fog-shrouded moors of Victorian Yorkshire, where gaslights flickered against perpetual twilight and the wind carried whispers from ancient graves, there lived a woman whose name was spoken only in hushed tones, Lady Seraphina Velmont, the Widow of Starfall Manor.
She had been beautiful once porcelain skin, raven hair that fell in heavy waves, and eyes the color of winter starlight. Her husband, Lord Edmund Velmont, a wealthy industrialist with interests in railways and coal, had died suddenly in 1873, officially of heart failure. The inquest was brief,the coffin was closed. Seraphina, then only twenty-eight, emerged from mourning dressed in unrelieved black silk that seemed to drink the light rather than reflect it. She never remarried. She never smiled again in public.
But the villagers knew better than to believe the official story.
They called her the Star Witch.
On certain nights, when the sky was clear and the constellations burned cold and bright, strange lights were seen in the highest tower of Starfall Manor, pale blue flames that moved against the wind, forming patterns no astronomer could name. Shepherds claimed to have seen her on the moor at midnight, barefoot in her widow’s weeds, arms raised to the heavens as if drawing down threads of silver light. Cattle sickened. Children had nightmares of a beautiful woman with starlight in her eyes who whispered their names from beyond the grave.
The truth, whispered only among those who dabbled in the occult societies of London, was darker still.
Seraphina had not always been a widow in spirit as well as name. In life, Lord Edmund had been a cruel, ambitious man who collected power the way others collected art, ruthlessly. He had ruined rivals, broken strikes, and, some said, arranged quiet accidents for those who stood in his way. When he died, his soul did not depart quietly. It lingered, furious and potent, a storm of will trapped between worlds.
Seraphina, grieving and alone, discovered she could FEEL it, his residual power, like static in the air before lightning. And on the night of a rare celestial alignment, when the Perseid meteors streaked across the sky like falling souls, she reached out and TOOK IT!
She became a conduit.
A star witch is not born, there are only two ways to become one. She is made at the crossroads of grief and cosmic alignment, or it is gifted to her. Seraphina learned that certain souls, those charged with intense will, ambition, genius, or malice, do not fade gently into death. They burn. And on nights when the veil between worlds thinned and the stars aligned in specific, ancient patterns, she could harvest them.
She did not raise the dead. She did not command corpses. She collected what they left behind, the pure, refined essence of power that strong souls carried like a second heartbeat. A general’s strategic brilliance. A poet’s transcendent vision. A murderer’s cold, unbreakable focus. Each one added to her reservoir, making her sharper, more enduring, more inevitable. 
Her methods were subtle. A quiet visit to a fresh grave under a new moon. A gloved hand pressed to cold marble in a mausoleum. A single black candle lit in her tower as a comet passed overhead. The soul, if potent enough, would come willingly, drawn by the promise of continued existence within something greater. She bound them not with chains, but with starlight.
Over the decades, her collection grew. The ruthless magnate. The brilliant inventor who took his secrets to the grave. The sorcerer executed for heresy in centuries past, whose restless spirit still wandered old battlefields. Each one fed her. Her skin stayed smooth. Her eyes grew brighter. Her presence became... heavier, as though gravity itself bent toward her.
By the 1890s, those who met her spoke of an unnatural chill, a sense that time slowed in her vicinity. Spiritualists in London claimed to have contacted spirits who spoke fearfully of “the Widow who keeps what should be released.” One medium, after a particularly violent séance, was found dead with frost on her lips though the fire roared in the grate.
Lady Seraphina Velmont was last seen in public in 1897, attending the funeral of a prominent politician who had died under mysterious circumstances. She stood apart from the mourners, veiled in black, utterly still. When the coffin was lowered, a single shooting star—impossible in daylight flashed across the sky.
Starfall Manor stands empty now, its windows dark. But on certain clear nights, lights still move in the highest tower. And those brave or foolish enough to walk the moor report hearing a woman’s voice, soft as silk and cold as starlight, murmuring names long forgotten.
She is still collecting. And now all that she has collected including her ability to collect can be yours. You can use all she had from others. All the paranormal, all the supernatural, all of their abilities and talents are now yours for the usage. 
This is an antique from the early 1800’s. I have one other from the 40’s or 50’s going on too.  This is a pin, the other is a sterling ring. This is the oldest one. To use this piece. Wear it and tap the center three times. That’s all it takes.