There is something strange going on in the city.

It is not anything that most people would immediately notice and, even if they did, they likely wouldn't care. They toil away at their jobs, schools and homes, willfully ignorant of the bristling calamity brewing in the city's underbelly. It's a sickness that they're choosing to ignore because the afflicted are those that were already cast out of proper society. The drug addicts, the homeless, the mentally deranged, the unfortunates… By no means are the struggles of these groups mutually exclusive from each other and, as such, the world 'above' has cursed them with invisibility.

Why would they care for a few disappearances? They were frequent enough before and there's only a slight uptick now. “Besides,” they would say,  “that is the world they live in. As long as it's there and not here; them and not us, then why worry?”

But they don't say such things because they don't notice.

The old man holding the sign begging for a few coins that he'll inevitably use to drown away his sorrows? He was in the same alleyway all the time, shaking his slightly crumpled Dixie Cup in hopes that someone would take pity.  Then, he was there a bit less. When he was finally gone, nobody was curious because they were relieved. No longer did they have to ignore the ugly blotch on their otherwise perfect lives. They could and do continue to rhythmically obsess over the things that matter. A disappearance can't be a disappearance if those that disappear are already lost.

Yet, there's still a subtle uneasiness about the situation. It's as if they know that there is something amiss and that it is coming from the section of the city long since abandoned during the worst parts of it economic collapse. They reason away their avoidance of that place: it's desperation incarnate; where petty crime has become an accepted pastime and where the police have given up patrolling. They believe that they shun the ruins and their occupants simply because they are the degenerates that have no place in their neatly packed and maintained lives.

It's not an altogether false narrative, but it certainly lacks the specificity of their new found discomfort. Where before, they simply avoided that area out of safety, they now fear its very presence and anyone possibly associated with it. They are unaware that The Fortuna, the abandoned hotel that rests right in the center of that ghetto, is radiating that fear like radio waves. They fear the barely noticeable signal because it is not meant for them. It is meant for The Lost that they neglect. It calls to them and pulls them towards its rusted doors, promising a place to belong, a home to have for themselves and a 'clan' to call their own.

At first, they come and go as they please, leaving behind the molded plaster and colonies of roaches, so they can bring back food and drugs alike for their new family. Eventually,  the draw of the hotel is too much. They begin looking over their shoulders, unaware that they are setting their tired gaze in the direction of The Fortuna which calls out to them. They pump themselves full of more drugs and alcohol to numb the anxiety gripping at their hearts, oblivious to the fact that they are suffering from withdrawals from being away for too long. When they mindlessly wander, they no longer stop at gas stations, but find themselves staring at the doors of The Fortuna yet again.

They home becomes their prison.

They do not think much of it. The Fortuna, to them, is like any other place that they've squatted before. Most of the windows are busted, the pipes tremble as rats skitter through from one nest to the other, the walls flicker with light from kerosene lamps and trash bin fires, and there's a sickening stench that saturates the very air, bringing with it airborne disease that makes the uninitiated retch. The floors are covered not only with shit and dirt, but the prone bodies of addicts that have chemically lobotomized themselves as well. When they shift, they kick away needles still caked with blood which are quickly snatched up and reused by those that have just enough sense to know that they have a craving, but not enough to stop.

Those mostly conscious still wander the halls and the rooms. They converse with each other, trading in both items and favors in order to survive. Their baggy, tattered clothes hang loosely on their malnourished bodies and their teeth have become black and yellow colonies of bacteria. It gives their breath a pungent odor nearly as powerful as the pain their decaying teeth causes them. Wary of outsiders, their worries are only abated when they are approached with gifts. Food is fine, water is better but the real value can be found in cheap powder and black resin. Most of them are frequent abusers, but these days they've been venturing out a little less, much to the dismay of their habits' providers who wonder where their clients have gone.

All-in-all, the Fortuna is like any other abandoned building, even if it has a slightly higher population than normal. The sounds, the smells, the sights are all what one could expect. Yet, if someone really focuses their ears, they can hear a sharp clinking sound coming from above. It's a distant rattling that just barely manages to reach the bottom floor, but whenever it briefly stops, the squatters become a little more tense. They do not know why. They don't even notice the effect that the almost inaudible sound has on them. They don't speak of it to each other and, for all intents and purposes, it may not exist to them.

But, it's there and on a primal level. Deep within the recesses of their lizard brains where there's no hope that instinct can be translated into conscious thought, it whispers: I am afraid.