Lost Carcosa

[Luned]

Lost Carcosa

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It is 1943 and the world is caught up in the conflict of World War II. Carcosa is a territory of the United States, a small island off the coast of the Canadian Maritimes and New England, and remains fairly isolated and self-sufficient. It is largely inhabited by fishermen, farmers, and craftspeople, and has but one small city by the same name.

Carcosa's reputation is akin to the Bermuda Triangle of the North Atlantic. It's considered a bad luck place to live by most and has little to no tourist appeal. There are rumors of the strange, unusual, and paranormal, but nothing has been confirmed. Residents are superstitious and diverse, its history long, dark, and complicated, as it was settled by many different peoples, yet no settlements lasted more than a century until recently. There has been evidence of an ancient native culture, but only very little... until now.

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Twilight in August was a warm, misty thing, and a wooly fog crept across the city to embrace its quiet inhabitants. Carcosa was a peculiar place, new to this civilization but old and creaking under foot. Architecture was fairly modern with structures no more than half a century old, but it was interesting to see the new world meet something more ancient in the aged rubble of the borrowed foundations they built upon. These remnants of past cultures were telling of the island's bleak past, previously uninhabitable to the many tribes and explorers who aimed to call it their own. One couldn't dig a hole for a fence post without discovering an unmarked grave or some material testament to yet another failed settlement, but such a thing was so normal that no one considered it strange anymore. More educated locals knew that the sand and soil of the island was rust-red from a high concentration of iron, but legend explained it much more creatively: it was stained by a cursed thousand years of lost blood.

Outdated oil street lamps lit the end of the street and shone fuzzy in the haze, illuminating one of the more gentrified districts lined with mansion-like townhouses. They were perfectly symmetrical with red brick and white trim, meticulously maintained gardens with wrought iron gates greeting visitors out front. The Goulds lived at 47 Western Avenue, the one with both American and British flags on proudly display from a duet of poles over the front door.

Mr. Gould had been an entrepreneur in London. He and Mrs. Gould met young, married young, and to her delight, to great financial success. After several breathless years of extravagant living and socializing they were blessed with their first child, a cherubic delight they decided to call Charlotte after a particularly pesky great-aunt.

Mrs. Gould was about as good a mother as Charlotte's namesake was pleasant, however, and it was downhill from there. The child grew slowly and learned slowly, much to the embarrassment of her parents, and was soon excommunicated from their attention to the care of a nanny. In hushed receipt of experimental treatments for her frequent seizures, nothing notably effective except perhaps as forms of mild torture, Charlotte grew up to be of surprisingly good character. Though math was a struggle and language not much better, from the day she picked up a violin, she learned to speak with it instead.

At the dawn of the Second World War, Mr. Gould was given an opportunity to relocate. Though it was debatable that he did it out of the interest and safety of his family –– it was rumored Mrs. Gould threatened suicide when faced with separation from her friends and family –– they soon ended up in Carcosa, all three members in tact and not too much worse for wear.

Nannies were slim pickings in a place like that, however, and after multiple failed attempts to ship one over from home, Mrs. Gould conceded and hired a less-than-optimal candidate, the mysterious Miss Anna Smith. Much to her chagrin, Charlotte attached herself to the young woman immediately and showed a drastic improvement in demeanor.

Currently they were quickly approaching the first anniversary of Ania's service. Charlotte had been fixated on what kind of cake the occasion would require, having dubbed it the ever-important "Annie-versary", and had been almost impossible to contain since her mother had mentioned it casually in passing one week prior.

Today was worrying, however. Charlotte had been sullen when Anna brought her to music lessons, something which was usually the highlight of her week, and on their walk back she was abnormally quiet, even for someone of few words such as herself. For the entire six block walk her pale little hand was clenched securely around a fistful of the fabric of Ania's skirt, budging for nothing. At the gate of her house she hesitated, freckled lip trembling. Something was wrong.