[writing] "The Baby Killers", more of

Arkady draws his hands upward. The bonds in which he was interred snap like cobwebs. His joints click as they pop in and out of alignment, the range of motion impossible for a living man. In moments his fingers touch his chest, palms flat and facing away to touch the bottom of the casket lid.

There is a hiss above as the seals begin to melt.

Even the gin-ridden stupor which has driven Ion to snoring at the vault door is disturbed by the smell of wax running, the martyrs' hair within curling away in reeking wisps. He awakens with a mouth like a chicken coop and the sense of pigs galloping within the echoing confines of his skull.

The network of silver bells surrounding the casket now rings in high-pitched panic, like a regiment of fairies being driven forth by the devil himself. That sound penetrates Ion's dawning consciousness, and draws him fully alert even through the alcoholic fog.

The drunken monk stumbles to his feet, tugs at the wrought iron latch of the vault door, and opens it to see the casket exploding in a mist of dry rot, flame and melting bells.