Excerpt:
I was too frightened to cry out again. Instead I remained absolutely still, crouching in pitch blackness while the wash of ship sounds eddied about me, sounds now intensified by the frantic knocking of my heart. Then I recollected that Zachariah's dirk was still with me. With shaking hand I reached into the pocket where I'd put it, took it out, and removed its wooden sheath which slipped through my clumsy fingers and clattered noisily to the floor.

"Is someone there?" I called, my voice thin, wavering.

No answer.

After what seemed like forever I repeated, more boldly than before, "Is someone there?"

Still nothing happened. Not the slighted breath of response. Not the slightest stir.

Gradually, my eyes became accustomed to the creaking darkness. I could make out the ladder descending from the deck, a square dim light above. From that point I could follow the line of the ladder down to where it plunged into the hold below. At that spot, at the edge of the hole, I could see the head more distinctly. Its eyes were glinting wickedly, its lips contorted into a grim, satanic smirk.

Horrified, I nonetheless stared back. And the longer I did so the more it dawned on me that the head had not in fact moved—not at all. The features, I saw, remained unnaturally fixed. Finally, I found the courage to edge aside my fear and lean forward—the merest trifle to try and make out who—or what—was there.

With the dirk held awkwardly before me I began to crawl forward. The closer I inched the more disported and grotesque grew the head's features. It appeared to positively inhuman.

When I drew within two feet of it I stopped and waited. Still the head did not move, did not blink an eye. It seemed as if it were dead.

With trembling fingers I reached out and managed to brush the thing, just lightly enough to sense that it was hard—like a skull. At first I cringed, but then puzzlement began to replace fear. I touched the head more forcibly. This time it rolled to one side, as though twisting down upon a shoulder yet all the while glaring hideously at me. I pulled back.

By then I had drawn close enough so that, accustomed to the dark, my eyes could make out the head more or less distinctly. I realized that this humanlike face was a grotesque carving cut into some large, brown nut.

Emboldened, I felt for it again, trying to grasp it. That time the head quivered, teetered over the edge of the hold, then dripped. I heard it crash, roll about then cease to make any sound at all.

Torn between annoyance for what I had done and relief not to be in any danger, I put the dirk back into my pocket—I never did find the sheath—-retrieved the candle and started climbing the ladder. Halfway up I remembered my clothing, the reason for my being below in the first instance. For a moment I hung midpoint wondering if I should go back and fetch some of what I needed.

Insisting to myself that there was nothing to worry about, I groped my way back to the trunk, feeling for and taking up what I had previously laid out. Then I turned, half expecting to see the head again—but of course I did not—and rung by rung, squeezing clothing and books under my arm, climbed to the top of the ladder. After closing the hatch's double doors, I crawled out from beneath the table and retreated hastily to my cabin.

There I changed my clothes, and soon felt quite calm again. I was able to reflect on all that had just happened.

The first question was, what exactly had I seen? A grotesque carving, I told myself, though I had to admit I couldn't be sure. Even if it was a carving, could a carving reasonably put out a candle? Surely that must have been done by a human hand. My thoughts fastened upon Barlow.

On further reflection, however, I was quite convinced that—other than the candle—Barlow had been empty-handed. Yes, I was certain of it. Besides, though I hardly knew the man, he seemed too submissive, too beaten about, to be capable of such a malicious trick. After all, it was he who had warned me twice about possible trouble.

But—if it had not been Barlow, there must have been a second person, someone to place the head where I'd seen it. Once I put my mind to that possibility, I realized with a start that, yes, I had seen two faces.

The first one—I was mortally certain—had been a human's, belonging to the person who snuffed out the candle and who then, under the cover of dark, set up the carving to deceive and frighten me.

Thought I prided myself on my ability to remember sights and sounds, I was unable to make a match at all between that face and any man I had seen among the crew. Someone new? That was impossible. We were at sea. Visitors did not stop to call!