Sunday Screams: Dawn of the Dead (1978)
Monologue – The Storyteller & the Necklace "You trust me," the scarab whispered, its voice curling around the Storyteller’s mind like smoke. "If you want to live, you must trust me." The Storyteller’s fingers clenched the necklace, the cool metal cutting against the warmth of the late afternoon sun. "And if I fail?" he asked, voice tight. "You won’t." The scarab’s shell gleamed crimson in the fading light. "But I will. And you… you might just survive." The wind shifted, carrying the scent of damp earth and faint smoke. A tremor ran through him. The air thickened, pressing against his skin. Then it began. Fingers stretched into razor-sharp claws, skin bubbled into vambraces over his forearms, legs elongated unnaturally, wings tore through his back with a wet, leathery snap, and horns spiraled from his skull. His eyes bled dark violet, glowing ominously in the twilight. The faint scent of ozone and iron mingled with the sm...