The Boy Inside the House

I had always heard about Adam Welsh. He was the twelve-year-old boy who never grew up. To this day he lives in the three-story red brick house on Sycamore Lane.

Adam's father made millions in real estate and insurance. He had the house on Sycamore Lane specially built to withstand any act of nature. To many there was something unnatural and eerie about the house. When a tornado ripped through town, houses surrounding it were leveled, yet the Welsh home stood untouched.

Adam was very much a normal boy. He made friends easily, did quite well in school and played Little League baseball. One year he won the county junior Spelling Bee. He was also an excellent trumpet player.

One day while performing a trumpet solo before an audience of two hundred people, he started to shake and sweat. The notes that came out likewise shook. In the middle of the performance, Adam stopped and ran out of the building and all the way home, never to come out again.

Thirty years passed. Both of his parents died, leaving a trust fund for him, which his older brother Arthur looked after.

I was never convinced that this story was true. I'm now twelve. How could a human being never grow old?

"Just forget it, Matt," said my best friend Teddy one day as we rode our bikes past the house on Sycamore Lane. "Nobody can see him. Do you know how many have tried?"

I'd spoken about meeting Adam. I had to know if it was true.

In front of the house sat a security guard. The place was like a fortress. The fence had razor-sharp tips and installed all over the grounds were alarms. Unless you knew where to step you'd set one off well before reaching the house.

At the intersection of 13th Street and Sycamore Lane, I stopped and looked back. Teddy pulled up beside me.

"You can't do it, Matt. Nobody has seen him in over thirty years. Not even your persistence will work."

Teddy knew me pretty well. Once I got something in my head I rarely let it go until I either failed or succeeded at it.

As I smiled at him, I'd already made up my mind. I would meet Adam Welsh.

"Don't worry, Teddy. I know it's silly."

Over the years reporters had tried every scheme to gain access. One bribed a guard and made it to the front door before being nabbed. Whoever got an interview with Adam Welsh would be famous. I simply wanted to know the truth. How had he remained a boy of twelve? Wasn't he bored, trapped inside the house? Didn't he miss being with others?

I talked to Dad once about meeting him. He shook his head and said, "It's just impossible, Matt. Early on the Welsh family let it be known that Adam was to be left alone. Occasionally his brother speaks about him."

Through a little effort I found out that Arthur Welsh was a lawyer with the firm of Wainwright, Evans and Welsh. Getting up the courage, I phoned his office.

The receptionist asked my name and what I wanted.

"My name is Matt Koenig, and I would like to speak with Mr. Welsh."

I did my best to sound older. I don't think my nervousness helped.

"I'm afraid that Mr. Welsh is very busy. Perhaps if you left your phone number and a message, he might be able to return your call."

I gave her my phone number and nervously said, "I'd like to speak to him about his brother Adam."