The Concrete House on Mulberry Lane

When I was seven, my parents split, and I shuttled between my father’s sterile apartment and my mother’s cluttered bungalow on Mulberry Lane. That first summer with Mom, I met Elara. She was my age, with hair the color of spun gold that never tangled, and she wore a simple, old-fashioned dress of faded blue gingham. It was always the same dress, pristine, as if untouched by time or play.

Elara’s house was a squat, gray concrete structure that looked more like a bunker than a home, sitting a block from our bungalow. The outside was plain, with small, square windows that seemed to swallow light. But inside, it was a different world. The walls were covered in velvet tapestries depicting scenes of a grand manor and a forest with silver leaves. The furniture was heavy, ornate, and dark, lit by oil lamps that gave off a honeyed glow. I never questioned the incongruity; I was a child, and Elara was my friend.

We would spend hours in her secret room, a hidden alcove behind a bookcase, filled with toys that seemed ancient but were in perfect condition. We played games I don’t remember, but I recall the laughter and the feeling that time moved differently there. Her mother, a silent woman with a face like porcelain, would bring us tea and biscuits that tasted faintly of dust and honey. I never saw her father. I never saw anyone else, not even neighbors, when I was there.

As I grew older, I noticed more. Elara never aged. Her dress never changed. Her hair was always immaculate, even after we played hide-and-seek in the dusty attic. Her eyes, a pale blue, held no reflection, like glass. When I was twelve, I finally blurted out, ‘How do you stay so clean? Don’t you ever get dirty?’ She just smiled, a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, and said, ‘Mother takes care of it.’

That summer, I moved back with Mom permanently. Excited, I ran to Elara’s house, but a strange woman answered. She had tired eyes and wore a modern dress. I asked if Elara lived there. The woman looked at me blankly and said, ‘There’s no Elara here. My brother and his family lived here years ago, but we’ve been here for six months.’

I insisted, describing Elara and the velvet tapestries. The woman’s face paled. She said, ‘The walls here are all just concrete, child. There’s no secret room. You must be mistaken.’ I felt a cold dread seep into my bones. I walked home, turning back, and saw the house as it truly was: an abandoned, gray concrete shell, windows boarded, door rusted. It looked like it had been empty for decades.

That night, I lay in bed, trying to remember Elara’s name. I could see her face perfectly, like a photograph, but her name was gone. I dreamt of her, standing at the window of that concrete house, her dress unchanged, her eyes fixed on me. When I woke, I decided to investigate.

I asked my mother if she remembered Elara. She frowned and said, ‘Honey, you played alone in that field behind the old Carter place. There were no other kids on the block.’ I showed her the spot where the house stood, but she said, ‘That’s been an empty lot since I was a girl.’

I returned to the lot. Among the weeds, I found a small, rusted locket. Embossed on it was a name: ‘Elara Winthrop, 1898.’ I opened it. Inside was a faded photo of Elara, the same girl I knew, in the same blue gingham dress. On the back, in spidery handwriting: ‘Given to my beloved daughter, Elara. May she never fade.’ I dropped the locket as if burned.

Now I am an old man, and I still see her. In reflections, in the corner of my eye, she stands, still a child, still in that dress. I went back to Mulberry Lane last year. The lot is now a small park. But as I sat on a bench, I saw a child playing on the swings—Elara. She looked at me and waved, and I felt a chill. I heard a whisper, as if from far away: ‘You never forget me, do you? I’ve been waiting.’

I don’t know what she is, or why she chose me. But I know one thing: that concrete house was never real. It was a doorway, and Elara was the keeper. And now, I carry her name in my mind, a curse I can’t shake. The last time I visited, I saw her writing in the dirt with a stick. She wrote ‘Elara,’ then looked up, smiled, and erased it. ‘Now you’ll never forget,’ she said. And she was right.