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more exposure to the elements, and hurried reluctantly across to the spot, intending to pick the thing up and examine it once safely back under the roof.  Face screwed up against the rain, she reached for it – and froze.
     
    It was a boxcutter.  Next to it was a severed finger.  Small.  A child’s finger. 
     
    Carla instinctively drew back and looked around.  There was no sign of anybody else in the area.  She looked again at the finger.  Detached just above the knuckle, it looked pale and bloodless now.  The dust beneath it had been churned into gory sludge by the pounding rain. 
     
    Shocked and repulsed, Carla nonetheless crouched down and moved to pick it up.  At the last moment, she changed her mind and picked up the knife instead, wanting to confirm her worst suspicions.  Her hand shook with apprehension and cold as she slid the blade out.  It was coated in fresh blood which the rain immediately began to rinse away.  Carla closed her eyes and retracted the blade.  The boy had done this to himself.
     
    Without further hesitation she picked up the finger, wincing slightly.  It was cold, and slightly shrivelled from the loss of blood.  Carla turned it over in her hand.  Most of the nail seemed to be missing.  All that remained was a small crescent overgrown by long, fleshy cuticles.  On the other side the fingerprint friction ridges seemed unnaturally deep, the whorls and striations almost frill-like. 
     
    The finger flexed easily as she examined it.  Too easily, like a stick of pepperoni.  Feeling queasy, she examined the stump end.  It had been a clean cut, straight through.  The bone protruded slightly where the bleeding flesh had contracted, but it was too thin, even for a child’s finger.  Instead, the spindly phalange was surrounded by a thick layer of shiny, fibrous cartilage. 
     
    Carla looked away.  Dr Khalil’s alarming words about atavism echoed in her mind.  The only cartilage in the finger should be a light sheen at the joints, not replacement for healthy bone like this.  Not like this at all.
     
    Standing up, she wondered what to do.  The boy must have lost a lot of blood, was probably in shock.  She ought to inform the police.
     
    Her eye was arrested by the graffiti the boy had been staring at.  The entire wall was daubed black and red, with layer upon crudely-scrawled layer of tags, slurs, abstract pictures and obscure, teenage hieroglyphics.  Here, an ovoid, bow-legged man with a shark’s mouth and fin, and prominent erection.  There, a mermaid with tentacle arms and a lamprey’s scolex for a mouth.  The unknown artist had labelled these gruesome figures “Cthulhu fthaghn!” in dripping red letters.  Some later critic had scored through this in black, adding “FUCK CTHULHU” for clarity. 
     
    The aquatic theme continued through the other pictures.  A stick man with the barbed tail of a manta ray snipping the heads off two rudimentary women, using giant, crustacean claws.  A bloated female figure, head covered with dangling photophores, surrounded by kneeling fishmen with  “Ia Ia!” written in the speech bubbles coming from their mouths.
     
    The same hand that had written “FUCK CTHULHU” had defaced some of these designs as well, finishing with “FUCK ALL U FREEKS” in letters a foot tall.  Someone had retorted with “NO FUCK U RAMRAM” and a string of incomprehensible runic symbols.
     
    It took Carla a few seconds to make the connection.  RAMRAM.  Ramone Ramsgate!  He must have hung out here.  There was a good chance the others did too.  She stared at the deformed finger, images from the autopsies floating to the front of her mind.  Maybe the other Innsmouth kids would be able to tell her whether the crash had been a suicide.  And why.     
     
     
     
    *****
     
     
     
    It was still raining four hours later, when she arrived at Rowley hospital.  She had managed to fasten a sheet of plastic over the broken window of the