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Summary
There was a house off the corner of Wisteria Lane that none of the residents of utterly mundane Little Whinging looked at for longer than a few moments. It was old, dilapidated, its ancient-looking pointed arches looking like it belonged to an era that had no right to be in good, middle class, boring, white collar Little Whinging, where all of the other houses were neatly fenced, low-ceilinged bungalows built in the 1980s, or the more modern, identical cookie cutter duplexes that shared a fire wall between two units. All of the adult residents of the little patch of heavenly, manicured lawns of suburban Surrey agreed it was an eyesore. All of their children agreed the house would be a wild adventure to break into on All Hallows. No one ever truly dared. Not when the strange women who lived there threatened to eviscerate you with a smile.