If it’s true that a house can have a soul or a spirit, then the house Bradley inhabited after separation from his biological mother had a malevolent one that caused discomfort to most of the foster children who lived there over the years. Bradley did not experience this discomfort, and in fact, he felt a sort of kinship with the house. It was as though both he and the house possessed the same ill temperament that Bradley had honed over years when he never quite learned to get along with anyone and he seemed to revel in the discomfort or unhappiness that he could inspire in others. The house had a nice and stately outward appearance; it was three stories including the attic and it had a fresh coat of paint that was refreshed every five years or so to keep it brightly white against any weathering that threatened it in the humid, seaside environment of Virginia Beach, VA where it was situated and had housed a noble lineage of the state that was sure to die off after the current generation of one expired. Priscilla Farnsworth was the great great granddaughter of a decorated Navy general who had settled in Virginia Beach many years ago and his home was big enough to house the 15 children he and his wife had over the long years of their marriage. With each subsequent generation, the Farnsworth family numbers dwindled and by the time Priscilla’s father was born, he was the oldest of three sons and the only to survive into midlife. The man had no cousins; many had died in service to their country and others had drifted away from the family’s heritage in VA, opting for new names and fresh starts elsewhere. Priscilla seemed to be the sole surviving Farnsworth still proudly holding the name when Bradley arrived at the home that was packed with a history that buggered its inhabitants who would be happy to ignore it if he didn’t seem to lurk dark rooms and corners, and come to life in the stories the foster children told one another that they had either made up or dug up from the many artifacts that could be found inside; ghost stories gained full weight and realization upon retelling and Priscilla was persistent about shutting them up and letting them die.
Priscilla welcomed Bradley with a stern smile as his social worker led him up the front steps to the huge, plantation style porch. Priscilla had always liked the idea of having children and since her youth, people told her that she would become a great mother, though she never had children of her own for reasons that are many in number; the foremost being her aversion to marriage that she felt would only strip her of the last name that she held in very high regard and wore as a badge of honor. She had suitors over the course of her life, but by the time she welcomed Bradley into her home, Priscilla had given up romantic entanglements and was completing a secret mission of finding an heir to which she could leave her name and all of her family’s fortunes. She opened her home to foster children for this reason and over the decade or so that children came and went, she was mostly unimpressed with the manner of child left in her care. She was not cruel to the children, in many respects she gave them a sense of discipline that every child unknowingly longs for, but the children were generally very happy to find placement elsewhere owing to Priscilla’s demand for discipline and in some cases, the haunting nature of the mansion that either made sounds because of its shifting foundation or because it housed centuries worth of spirits that would torment the children in the dark. Over the time that she had opened her home to foster children, some had disappeared completely and despite rumors of something nefarious on Priscilla’s part — or on the part of the evil mansion — the agency never thought twice about her fitness for foster parenting. The children were usually believed to have run away, as was not uncommon among older foster children who had lived their entire lives moving from home to home with no sense of permanence.
Bradley did not believe in ghosts and assessed his new home and the woman who would be his new foster mother, he thought that he had finally found himself in a home well suited for his regal personage. Even though he had just reached his teen years, Bradley knew that he was destined for great things, his life to that point had proved it; he’d managed to escape the poverty of the ghetto and was now being welcomed into a mansion. And the house itself seemed to welcome him, like he was the heir it had been waiting for.
“I hope you will enjoy your time in my home,” Priscilla said as she led Bradley inside. Even though the house was old, it looked very new inside. Bradley admired the ornate chandelier in the main hallway, the shiny wood flooring throughout the first floor, and the fancy rugs in each of the rooms they passed. When they made it to the dining room, Bradley’s social worker said goodbye and he turned to view the long table where four other children sat, solemnly eating lunch. The other children that lived in Priscilla’s home abhorred their time when. When she had left them to acquaint themselves with Bradley over lunch, they launched into the worst of trials under the woman’s care.
A girl named Cara who was very small for a eleven year old told Bradley about the chore of changing the linens in all of the bedrooms of the house. “There’s so many! I fast at it now, but it still takes forever. I don’t know why we even do it, no one sleeps in most of the rooms.” Priscilla had a staff of workers who prepared meals, cleaned, did laundry, and a small crew in charge of landscaping, but the children helped out as assigned. And it was true that Priscilla never had enough visitors to fill the many rooms of her home and much of the cleaning was to keep away the dust that would settle over everything. “The worst is the second floor,” Cara said ominously.
“Don’t start telling ghost stories,” Donald interrupted as Cara leaned in earnestly and spoke to Bradley. Donald was the oldest at fifteen and he had arrived just a few weeks before Bradley.
“It’s true. You just haven’t seen them yet. They’re not outside in the trees,” Cara said. “I’ve seen plenty of ghosts in those upstairs room.”
“Teddy hasn’t seen anything and he scrubs the floors up there every weekend.” Donald said.
Teddy was ten years old and very quiet. All of the children looked at him as he slowly finished his meal, not taking his eyes from it.
“Tell them Teddy!” Cara said with frustration. “Tell them what we saw yesterday.”
Teddy did not look up from his food.
“It doesn’t matter,” Bradley said. “I don’t really care what you kids think you saw. Ghosts are a myth, there’s no science to prove them.”
Elizabeth who was twelve at the time, rolled her eyes at Bradley. “Just shut up. I wish the ghosts would kill all of you. I can’t wait ’til my mom gets me out of this place.”
“I heard your mom was a drug addict.” Donald said laughing.
Elizabeth kicked him hard under the table and glared at him. Though Donald was the oldest, Elizabeth was the meanest and the other children were afraid of her.
“You all don’t need to worry about anything.” Bradley said looking around the fancy dining room with its ornate wallpaper and fancy light fixture hanging over the table. “Now that I’m here, things will get better. This is my house now and I will make sure nothing bothers any of you. It you are kind to me, of course.”
The other children looked at him, they were all mostly annoyed by his confidence and some were confused by his words.
During the first couple of weeks of his stay at Priscilla’s house, Bradley had managed to avoid many of the chores that the other children were forced to do. He had initially been assigned to assist with scrubbing the main floor, but he managed to charm Priscilla by reciting poems that he learned while he waited for placement in an orphanage. He did not really understand the Shakespeare sonnets that recited to Priscilla when all the children would gather with her on the big porch before bed for reading aloud, but he knew that knowing Shakespeare was an admirable thing that few children his age could do and was fitting for the type of man he was destined to become. Normally at the nightly readings, the children would sit bored to death as Priscilla read the classics to them from her rocking chair. She did not have a tv or internet in her home and children complained that they’d rather just go to bed than hear her read boring stories. Bradley did not disagree with them, he was shocked that there wasn’t a single tv in the house and he hated that he would no longer get to enjoy reruns of Frasier, but he pretended that story time was the highlight of his day and he often volunteered to read aloud or to recite the poems that he knew.
Priscilla saw something in Bradley and while the other children were learning discipline by cleaning her house, Priscilla decided that Bradley would benefit from more refined endeavors. She taught decided to give him piano lessons and she encouraged his interest in poetry. The two became inseparable in a short time and Priscilla would find herself looking at Bradley proudly like a mother as he did impressive things. She felt that she had finally found the child she was looking for.
After Bradley had been living at Priscilla’s home for about a month, she decided that there was no need to foster children anymore. She would allow Donald, Cara, Elizabeth, and Teddy to stay until the agency found permanent placement or returned them home, but she would not take in any new children after them. Bradley was ecstatic when Priscilla told him this news. The mansion would be his forever. But he wondered why Priscilla couldn’t just send the other children away.
“They’re not your responsibility mother.” Bradley called Prsicilla mother because he knew that she loved to hear it. In truth, his only affection for the woman was that she was the current owner of the home that he hoped to inherit and he did not feel any real bond to her.
“Oh, Bradley,” Priscilla laughed. “They are welcomed for as long as they need to stay and as long as they prove they comport with behaviors fitting of a resident of this house. You must always remember that a Farnsworth is a charitable person to those who prove himself worthy. You are a Farnsworth, aren’t you Bradley?”
Bradley smiled and nodded. Inside he thought that he was whatever he needed to be to secure his mansion.
“So enjoy the last siblings you will have while they are here and pray that they continue to prove themselves worthy of the Farnsworth charity.”
PRL Serials 