Drunk on blood, bloated by death, he stagers to his crypt. Panting amid the breathless skeletons, he finds his shelf waiting for him. The shadows of the mausoleum enfold this living corpse as he clambers up and lays himself down. In an hour, the sun will rise, and he will be in his place, secure in his chthonic darkness.
The stony watchers, those carved faces, sneer at this hateful thing, the undead, infecting the hallowed ground they were fashioned to guard. Alas, they are but dead things, only stone; what can these watchers do? Their unblinking eyes cannot really see.
Tale Told 