Outwardly, there is little about the two-story, clapboard house on Cleveland's Seymour Avenue that hints at the decade of horror that authorities say played out inside its walls.
With its boarded-up windows and peeling paint, the whitewashed house blends easily in the few dozen blocks that make up this hardscrabble, compact Westside neighborhood in Ohio's second-largest city.
People here say they are neighborly, but cautious -- of authority and, sometimes, of one another. They socialize, but they never pry. It is a byproduct of the stark poverty that grips this place and the problems that come with it.
Over the years, everybody in this neighborhood has lost someone or knows someone who has lost someone -- from a shooting or a drug overdose or a trick gone bad. But even here, where life can sometimes be cheap, the story of what happened in the house on Seymour Avenue has shocked the sensibilities of a place that residents call "the neighborhood."
It's inside that house where authorities say three young women who disappeared from Cleveland's streets more than a decade ago were held captive by Ariel Castro, a former school bus driver.
For those who know these streets and the man accused of unspeakable acts, there are only questions about how horror could hide in plain sight for so long.
"Why didn't I notice anything? What should I have been looking for?" asks Mickie Wodgik, who spent years living across the street from Castro and, it turns out, the three missing women.
"Were we all that oblivious?"
The news traveled fast
By now, everybody in the neighborhood knows the story: On Monday night, one of the women made a desperate attempt to escape after her captor left her alone, catching the attention of two men who knocked down a door to free her, a child and, ultimately, the other two women.
"My name is Amanda Berry. I've been kidnapped, and I've been missing for 10 years. I'm here, I'm free now," the caller told a 911 dispatcher.
The last time anyone saw Berry, she was finishing her shift at a Burger King in 2003 on the eve of her 17th birthday -- just a few miles from where police would find her 10 years later.
There, police also found Michelle Knight and Gina DeJesus. Knight disappeared when she was 19 in 2002, and DeJesus went missing when she was 14 in 2004.
News here travels fast, but that news rocketed through the tight rows of squat warehouses and clapboard houses and bounced through the bodegas, bars and gas stations that dot the main thoroughfares of the neighborhood formally known as Clark Fulton.
Within hours, it was crawling with police, FBI agents and reporters with that one overarching question: How did this happen? How did horror hide in plain sight for so long?
The answers are harder to come by.
Diversity and difficulty
For as long as anyone can remember Clark Fulton has been a hard-fought, working class neighborhood: A home to people as they made their way up in life or where they landed on their way down.
"Nobody lives here. They just stay here," said Pastor Joe Abraham, who for more than 25 years has ministered to many in this neighborhood.
From the office of the second floor of the red brick Scranton Road Bible Church, the pastor has seen the changes first hand.
Once it was a thriving neighborhood, a place where immigrant families came for good jobs with the local steel mills and the cloth factory.
By the time the pastor arrived in the late 1980s, it was already a neighborhood in transition from predominantly white, made up of Slovak, Czech and German immigrants, to black and white to more recently mostly Hispanic.
The church reflects that history, with some 300 parishioners coming from across the racial, ethnic and the socioeconomic divide.
But unlike big cities, where streets are defined by their immigrant nationality, there is no Little Puerto Rico, no Little Dominican and no Little Mexico in Clark Fulton.
Today, it's considered one of Cleveland's most ethnically diverse neighborhood. It's also considered one of the city's more problematic, with one in every five houses in foreclosure and a nearly double-digit unemployment rate, according to figures.