For three years, we lived next to a
haunted house.
Okay, it really wasn't 'haunted'.
But strange things went on there.
Maybe I should explain.
We lived on a street of tiny, beautiful
starter homes.
Less expensive and perfect for people
living on a lower income. They were filled with senior couples and
young families.
We fit into the second category.
The house beside us, whose front porch
I could see from my kitchen window, was home to a little elderly
couple.
Sweet people.
Quiet.
Private.
We saw them seldom.
Then, one day, I noticed that two young
girls were going in that front door.
I should mention, here, that I spent a
lot of time at my kitchen window. It was over my kitchen sink.
Enough said.
For many months, we saw those girls
regularly.
Then, suddenly, more people appeared. A
young woman with tattoos, piercings, a neanderthal whose whose
origins were questionable, and a baby named Levi.
Then I realized that I hadn't seen our
elderly couple in quite some time.
In fact I never saw them again.
For several months the two young girls
and the couple with their baby came and went.
Then two young boys, similar in age to
the two young girls, appeared.
And the two young girls stopped.
Appearing, that is.
Now, as near as we could figure, the
young couple and their baby and the two young boys lived there.
Then all activity ceased.
No one came or went.
One morning, I opened my front door to
a very tall police officer. “Do you know the people who live next
door?” he asked.
“That house?” I asked, pointing.
He nodded.
“I'm ashamed to say that I don't,”
I said. “There was a nice elderly couple there. Then two young
girls. Then a young couple and a baby. Then two young boys. But
that's about all I can tell you.”
“Come with me,” he said. He led the
way to the house.
I stopped in the front doorway.
Aghast.
I've always wanted to use that word . .
.
The cute little house had been
destroyed.
Cupboards had been ripped down off the
walls and shredded into matchsticks. Every single wall and door had
been punched out. The bannister ripped off the stairway and broken.
Toilet ripped off the floor and thrown out the window.
The damage was unbelievable.
Incredible.
And, over the din of five kids and
seven day-home kids, I had heard absolutely none of it.
Obviously someone had been very angry.
Or very, very disturbed.
For six months the little house
remained empty.
Then, one day, crews appeared and
effected repairs.
And, finally, a sweet young couple and
their baby moved in.
Ahhh. Normal at last.
Then the fights began.
Usually in the wee hours of the
morning.
One morning, after breakfast, I was
again at my post, hands in the sink, when a police car, followed by a
van pulled up next door.
Two policeman, one carrying a large
camera got out.
Oh, no. He's killed her, I thought.
The two went into the house.
Sometime later, more police cars
arrived.
It took me a while to notice because I
had the phone and was sitting on the floor calling my husband.
“I don't want to live here any more,”
I said, tearfully. “Please move me somewhere else!”
I ended my phone call and stood up.
Just as the front door opened.
A policeman came out.
Carrying two large, beautiful, healthy
marijuana plants.
Oh.
He was followed by another, carrying
two more.
Then another.
And another.
In all, I counted 16 plants.
Okay, not what I expected.
The officers stowed the plants and
left.
I must admit that I was quite surprised
when things next door became more or less normal for a while after
that.
Then the fights began again.
One particular night, we heard the loud
slam of a door.
Then pounding.
Then, “Open this door!”
The husband had pushed his wife outside
and locked the door.
Soon we heard the starting of a vehicle
and the squealing of tires.
Exit wife.
For a few weeks, the young husband and
the baby continued to live there.
Then we moved.
I couldn't take it any longer.
Who needs TV when one has a kitchen
window?
