Apparently, #19 is an asylum and none of the neighbors were notified.
| "COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO!" cried a man from the top story window of #19. He popped his head back in, slammed the windows shut, and went about his day. An old woman from up the street saw him, as she always did, and gave a horrid look to the closed windows, as she always did, shaking her head.
It was at that moment that the front door opened, and another man, dressed only in his underwear and vest, opened the door full-wide and stood, staring at the old woman without a movement. As she passed the last picket of his fence, he bent down and picked up a new paper, walked inside, turned a circle and set the paper back on the porch again.
"Those blooming idiots in #19," said the old woman under her breath.
A cat ran up to the door and meowed loudly, and the man whom had presented himself to the world in his undergarments flung open a window and called to the small, black creature.
"Mitzy! Come along!" he shouted, and the cat entered through the open window.
There were three men, and possibly a woman living at #19, but no one was certain. There were rumors that one of the men was actually dressing as a lady at times, and other times as a man. The only thing any of the neighbors were certain of is that everyone in the house behaved like a stark-raving lunatic. They had lived there for a few months, and whenever anyone tried to talk to them, they walked away and went inside. Every morning, the one man crowed like a rooster at exactly 7:53. Every morning, shortly after, another would do what the neighbors had now dubbed "the morning paper parade". And every morning, that same man let the cat in through the window. No one was sure why the cat continued to go to the door, but they all decided she was in on it.
An old Austin Healey was parked out front, but no one ever drove it. They saw the man (or possibly woman, or possibly man dressed as a woman) get in on occasion, start the car, then stop it and get out, opting to walk where ever instead.
One day, a neighbor had accidentally received mail for the house at #19. He fretted two days before his wife told him to go put it in their mail slot.
"Honestly, Roger, you don't even have to ring the bell. Stick it through the slot and be done with it!"
"Knowing them, they've got a cannon in there. Then what will you do, Mary?"
But he went anyway, and he attempted to slip the letter through the slot, but the man with the morning paper parade swung the door open (this time with trousers and an over shirt on) and snapped it from his fingers.
"Thank you!" he shouted crisply. He walked a circle in the entry way and closed the door, leaving his neighbor dumbfounded. The neighbor returned home, glad to be alive.
"Well, they didn't have a cannon, did they?" questioned the wife with sarcasm and a small amount of disappointment. "I'm sure they're... friendly. I mean, he did say thank you."
"They're mad, Mary. The whole lot of them."
Inside the house at #19 sat Spurgeon Rice, a tenant (the one whom paraded each morning in his nickers) with a cup of tea in his hand, smiling pleasantly to himself. He knew the neighbors talked about him, and he knew they were all flabbergasted by he and his housemates. It was a game for him because he had nothing better to do. He had retired early, and was unable to leave the house due to a terrible case of agoraphobia. In order to keep people away, and to keep his sanity in the mean time, he had devised a plan with his housemates who were just shy of a full brick wall themselves. One was a scientist - the one who woke the neighbors with his rooster imitation. The other was actually a set of twins who went to University nearby. They looked so alike, and people always marveled over how brother and sister could look alike, that they played into it.
It was the secret passion of all four who lived at #19 to keep the human race baffled, solely for their benefit. They had decided that, in the modern day and age, it was the least they could do to keep up with the times. In a world where they all blended in or worse, were perpetually walked on, it was great fun to be peculiar.
Eventually, that got boring too, and they returned to "normal". But the neighborhood was never quite the same. They always looked at the house at #19 with distrust and curiosity. They cautiously greeted the once psychopathic neighbors.
"After all," said Mr. Rice with a chuckle. "I may just get bored again, one day."