I assure you that nobody gets hurt in this story, at least not physically. It's been more than two years since the police showed up that day. They listened to her side, then listened to his side, then handed her a card with a phone number for domestic violence counseling, then suggested that he take a walk around the block to cool down. The two officers glanced at the kids and when they didn't see blood or broken bones, they didn't see any victims. Then they said something into their radio, wrote something in their book and pulled away.
Every neighborhood seems to have one of each.
The haunted house is usually some dilapidated, boarded-up building where ghosts supposedly run amok and children dare each other to cross the threshold. There are too many children, too little discipline, too many emotions spilling into the street. Debra's front yard is often littered with broken refrigerators and assorted car parts. In the summer, hundreds of pieces of fruit drop from a gorgeous plum tree and stain the sidewalk with leaking red pulp. Our street is populated with roller-curled widows who learned their frugal housekeeping skills during the Depression.