Charlie pressed himself deeper into the shadows, pulling the brass box from his pocket and examining it once more. What if it really was valuable? Could he sell it and keep the money? He didn’t see why not. He’d found it fair and square.

All of a sudden, someone seized him by the wrist and demanded: ‘Where did you get that?’

Charlie gasped and looked up to see an old man holding him in a grip of surprising strength. His bright eyes blazed with a fierce intensity and it took Charlie a moment to realise that he must have been lurking nearby all along, obscured by the gloom of the shop. His hair was white and close-cropped while the beard beneath curled thickly about his cheeks and chin. His overcoat was expensive and he wore an immaculate red silk tie and white shirt. The whole effect was as if some sort of sinister Santa Claus had materialised from among the bric-à-brac.

‘Get off me or I’ll call the police,’ Charlie stammered.

The man blinked twice and released his grip.

‘Forgive me. I was forgetting myself.’ The voice was well-mannered and apologetic. ‘I did not mean to alarm you.’

Charlie took a pace back.

‘Tell me, young man, where did you get that box?’

‘I found it on the beach.’

The man looked Charlie up and down as if trying to decide whether he was telling the truth.  

‘When did you find it?’

‘Yesterday. Buried in the sand. I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

The man seemed satisfied. ‘Oh, I’m sure you’re an honest lad. But listen.’ He leaned forward so close that Charlie could see the individual hairs in his beard. ‘If you have any sense, you’ll take this box out of this shop right now and throw it back into the sea where it belongs. Drown it. Deep water, mind you. The deepest you can find. And then forget all about it.’

‘Why?’

‘Because that box is dangerous. Extremely dangerous.’

The man stared at him intently, as if forcing his words into Charlie’s brain, then threw up his hands, palms outstretched. ‘But it’s up to you. You found it. It’s yours now. But remember this, young man: they call them the ghost tides round here. Big winter storms that unearth things that were buried long ago. Things that are best left undisturbed.’