The House on Echo Lane

By Jessica Lake

“What’s the matter, Huxley? Are you afraid?”

It was a trap.

But here I was anyway. How could The Boys on the inside have fun without a boy on the outside? The Outsider. That was my life’s role. Why was I here? Because if I wasn’t—I’d be nowhere.

“Give me a second.”

I was afraid. But not in the way the Boys thought. Echo House had been deserted since 1952. Even before my grandparents. At least, that’s what I’d heard.

She sits at the end of the Echo Lane cul-de-sac. Rumor has it that she was the first of many planned family homes, but the calamity that befell the first family put a kink in that.

My parents were quick to pick up on the idea of neurodivergent. I’d failed them. But they’d tolerate me—at least until eighteen.

I don’t think The Boys grasped it. They thought of it as a license to kill.

My kryptonite? I can’t say no. I was that desperate.

As a kid, I’d scout by this haunted place. It was out of my way; losers can’t be choosers. Each time I passed, I felt the pull of gravity toward Echo House.

Come to me.
I will ease your sorrow.
And on each morrow,
You’ll be young again.

You might think that unnerving. But stuff like that happens all the time. I paid her no mind. I thought she would get bored in time, even though I knew she wouldn’t.

She was crafty.

First, I’d glance for seconds. Then I’d stop and glare for minutes. Then I’d stand and stare for hours.

“Hey, Melon Head, are you gonna take the dare or not?"

I did have an oversized head.

So, a family of five died? People die plenty. That’s part of life’s scam.

I got up to the front door. I prayed it wouldn’t open. But before my hand could reach the knob, the door yielded inward. It revealed a narrow hallway ending in darkness. I pulled out my phone and snapped on the brave little touch. It was like David facing Goliath—if there were no God.

I turned to escape, but escape was only darkness now.

That was ever so long ago.

I can’t tell how long. Each day I wake up is the first. I found a wall calendar in the kitchen. Each day, I tick off a box. There are eleven ticks in each box.

Could it have been eleven years?

Years without hunger.

Years without thirst.

Years without regret.

What do you do? I walk from room to room. And I am always surprised when I land back where I began.

What had I wanted?

Not to be alone.

Not to be an Outsider.

Not to burden my parents.

I wanted my people. I found a crowd of one.

When I am desperate, I stare out the bay window. At the end of the lane, I see the future. Cars—strange and wondrous.

What else is there to do?

Endure.