Robert Franklin
“If these stones could speak,” my Uncle George often said, “they’d have strange tales to tell.”
He was referring to the old Victorian manse in Toronto’s west end his grandfather purchased in 1893.
Robert Franklin emigrated from Whitechapel, England and bought the west end house that same year.
He was a dark figure with a murky past.
There was always a whiff of corruption about him.
Ella, the common law wife Robert brought with him, disappeared in 1895 and was never seen again.
Robert went on living in the house and finally died in 1940 and his son, Harold, inherited it. When he died twenty years later, the house was passed down to George.
My uncle George being a bachelor, the house was finally passed down to me.
Honestly, the place gave me chills so, I resolved not to continue the Franklin family tradition, but instead, sell the old dowager to whoever would offer a fair price.
As Hamlet said about his uncle’s traditions, some customs are more honoured in the breach than the observance.
For me, retaining the old house fell into that compartment of my mind—what I call the category of things best left undone.
“What a creepy place,” Tess said, as she stood rubbing her arms and shivering in the foyer.
We were enjoying a spell of unseasonably warm spring weather so I knew her shivering had nothing to do with the temperature—it was the frisson I always experienced as well, whenever I entered the old house.
It was her idea to rent a bin and clean up the place before putting it on the market.
“Look, I know this is dismal—are you sure you want to do this?”
She stood frowning in the feeble half-light, looking like a tomboy with her blonde hair tied in a ponytail, wearing jean shorts and a white Tee shirt.
It was obvious she was hesitant.
“It’s okay to have second thoughts, you know—you don’t have to do this.”
“No, it’s not that Tom,” she smiled bashfully, “I guess I was hoping we might be able to Reno the place for ourselves—and our family.”
Her preoccupation with fixing up and cleaning up all fell into place.
“Don’t worry Tessie,” I said hugging her, “we’ll find a nest for you and the baby.”
I patted the tiny bump at her belt line.
“I don’t look that big, do I?”
She looked so adorable, I wanted to forget the housecleaning—but we made an appointment to have a realtor drop by on the weekend, so time was limited.
“For five months pregnant? You look incredibly beautiful.” I went to kiss her, but she stopped me.
She pushed on my chest with both hands. “Okay, back off, bud—we’ve got a lot of work to do.”
I gave her a wry smile. She was right though. The place looked grim.
“It’s a peculiar house, isn’t it?” I remarked, scanning the dark wainscoting and tall narrow windows.
She joined in my gaze, as I surveyed the rooms.
“It reminds me of a rectory or a parsonage—it even has that same church smell to it.”
I had to admit the house had a claustrophobic aura I've often felt in old churches. I didn't find it particularly protective or consoling as a child, but suffocating. Those same dark forces seemed to surround me here.
I tried to make light of my fears.
“Yeah, well, Uncle George never reminded me of a parson—they were all scary people—the Franklin side of the family.”
The image of Robert Franklin leapt to mind—I could still see him with his sidelong gaze, staring out from the bubble-glass portrait hanging in the foyer.
It was my turn to shiver.
I wanted no part of what I saw as a gloomy house of horrors.