Those problems have produced, well, other problems: drugs, prostitution and gangs.
Neighborly, but cautious
Wodgik landed in Clark Fulton in 1998, down on her luck and addicted to crack cocaine.
It wasn't a life she aspired to in her middle-class upbringing in the suburbs of this city along the southern shore of Lake Erie. Who does? It's just what happened, she says.
For nearly a decade, between 1998 and 2009, she lived on Seymour Avenue directly across the street from Castro -- from what now people just call "THAT house." For the last seven of those years, one, two and then three women were allegedly being held prisoner there.
"Our children played together and this whole time this is going on inside there. I can't believe it. He took everybody's kids for rides on his four-wheeler," she said, fighting back tears.
Since the news broke, Wodgik has replayed the years, the meetings over and over in her mind.
"I keep thinking, did he say something? Did I miss it?"
There were little things, of course. In all those years, she says, he never invited her or her son into his home. He always pulled his car into this driveway and locked the chain-link fence. He always went into the side door, never through the front door.
But then again, there are a lot of people like that in Clark Fulton: Neighborly, but cautious.
"You know, you talk to people. But you don't get in their business. ... That can be problems for you," says 31-year-old Angel Perez, sitting on the sagging porch reinforced with plywood boards on the block behind where THAT house sits.
Asked about whether he knew Ariel Castro, he said: "Yeah, I seen him around. I didn't get in his business."
But then again, Perez says, he sees everybody around. People hang out, and their children play together.
Wodgik knew Castro a little better, but not much. "I just thought that's the way he was, private. And you're allowed to be private," she said.
But now, standing on the street, looking back and forth between THAT house and the one with a boarded up, broken window that she once called home, she wonders.
Again, with that question, how did we not know?
Tears of joy and of sadness
Everybody in the neighborhood travels along Seymour Avenue at some point. It's one of the few two-way streets that runs east to west.
If there's an accident, you take Seymour.
If there's too much traffic, you take Seymour.
If you need a shortcut, you take Seymour.
Nearly every day for their more than 10 years of captivity, hundreds of people have traveled by THAT house.
Among them is 57-year-old Ronice Dunn.
There isn't much that Dunn hasn't seen or heard about since she first moved into in the neighborhood in 1984.
The way she tells it, her family was an oddity in the neighborhood: The first black family to move into Clark Fulton.