'Mortlock' 

 Apart from the feeble sphere of light cast by the candle that Tom Chitling held in front of him, the hold of the ship was pitch black. A distant bell chimed and the ship’s timbers groaned like the souls of the dead. The rank smell of the River Thames mingled with tar and something sweet made Tom cough, and hack up a lump of phlegm from the back of his throat. He looked at the crate. It was big, big enough for two men to hide in.

“There’d better be something worth havin’ in this one,” he murmured to himself. All around him boxes lay with their packing strewn wildly over the timber floor. Other crates that Tom had prised open with his crow bar lay on their sides, splintered and abandoned. He hadn’t found any of the treasure that his informant had promised, only old jars full of mummified birds and other things that he couldn’t name or didn’t want to think about. This was a fool’s errand and no mistake, he thought.

The big crate he had saved for last.

 “Bloody waste of time!” spat Tom Chitling as he levered up the lid of the biggest box. “Nothing here but old rubbish.”

He held up the candle. Shadows danced as he peered into the box. It took a moment for Tom to absorb what it was that he was looking at and then he let out a horrified scream. There was something in there, something hideous beyond imagination. All Tom’s childhood nightmares swirled around him, terrifying and overwhelming. He dropped the candle, plunging the hold into darkness.

“God help me…” whimpered Tom Chitling.

“Now why would God help an ugly, pox-faced sinner like you?” cackled a high-pitched voice in the black bowels of the ship.