Currently, at 17, I am an only child. However, until the age of 8 I had a brother and playmate 2 years my elder. We would rough house and play as most children do at those ages. We had our rivalries and our jealousies, him for being older held the role of role model, while I for being younger held the protectiveness of my parents. I never wished what happened though, I’d never would on anyone, and especially one I loved so. The street we lived had many beautiful oak trees that formed a multicolored archway down throughout the seasons, from yellows, browns and maroons in the fall to the pinks, blue, and cherry reds in the spring. It was by all accounts the all American neighborhood.

My parents were well off. Not rich per-se, but owned two adjoining houses, the one we lived in, and the one they claimed no one should ever own.

My brother and I often played in that house, ignoring some of the more strange adornments and furnishings. A huge two story house adorned with maple and oak trimmings with a yellowing white wallpaper having small blue spade patterns through that somehow never molded. Our parents -never minded our adventures throughout that house, so long as we adhered to these rules: clean and dust as we play, avoid breaking any of the glass or ceramic, do not ride the staircase banister (which was obscenely fun), and under no circumstance, enter the basement. Entering the house, you’d first see the grand staircase leading up to the second story. The door the right would be the kitchen and dining area, and the archway to the left lead the living room. A hallway to the right of the staircase lead to the backyard, and you could see golden streams of sunlight enter from the back door. On the right wall of this hallway stood the padlocked cream door leading to that infamous basement.

Our curiosity would sometimes lead us to the barred windows that peered into the basement. When we looked, we saw nothing but an ordinary basement. The support struts holding up the floor of that house, a concrete floor, and a rustic door which seemed to have been designed for an old cabin. Though it did seem unusually clean, no dust floating about, with a well-cared staircase leading up to the padlocked door. That same curiosity lead my brother to make a horrid mistake. One day, he revealed to me a key he lifted from father’s key ring, the one to open the padlock of the padlocked door. Eager to have a new area to explore, and eager to open the second door which surely held treasure and adventure, he unlocked the door. With a triumphant grin, he took the first step in. I stared at him with wide eyes and beseeched him not to continue, to turn back and lock the door since our parents held that room in such contempt. He looked at me with the countenance of a courageous older brother taking the journey a younger sibling dare not. When he reached the fifth step, the door swung shut, the shock of which knocked me back. I scattered towards the front door on all fours as a frightened wounded dog. I reached my parents, yelling at them the sequence of events that had just happened.

The authorities never found a body. Everyone searched the house, every possible crawl space and closet, but my brother was nowhere to be found. When it came to the basement, however, my parents insisted anyone enter should be tethered to the staircase, and always in the presence of a second person. I found out what was behind the rustic door, a square concrete closet full of nothing.

Now, I’m an only child, but I do miss my older brother. The door to the basement has now been walled over, so no entrance to the basement exists. One day I shall inherit both houses, and make sure no neighbors ever inhabit the house next door.