The Eyes of Savannah Dusk

The Eyes of Savannah Dusk

Trevor Prescott

“This is it…” Vincent Pryce’s fingers trembled as he lifted the jar. “The eyes of Savannah Dusk…”

The eyes floated in a sickly green liquid, rolling about as Vincent rocked the jar back and forth. They were pure black except for a thin white circle outlining the pupils. Just seeing them gave Vincent the chills.

“This is it? This is all we came up here for?”

Vincent turned to his companion, a bright-eyed youngster named Brett Garrett. He was a tall and athletic boy, headstrong and eager to learn but far too young to appreciate the nuances of a gothic castle—the sharp, pointed architecture, the ominous black shadows, the way groans seemed to float up from the bowels and making the castle almost seem alive. But, he was old enough to remember the reign of Savannah Dusk—he’d been fifteen the night she died.

“These are her eyes,” Vincent said, his gaze turning back to the jar. “Through these eyes, we will see the final night…”

“The final night of what?”

“Her reign, fool! We know that she perished, but we do not know how. Was it a stake to the heart, according to popular culture? An overdose of garlic? Did someone pin her down and pluck out her fangs with pliers? Through these eyes, we will finally see the truth...” Vincent took a deep breath in. Soon, he would have all the answers. Finding the eyes of Savannah Dusk would catapult him to a level of fame far beyond that of Bram Stoker.

“How does it work?”

Vincent furrowed his brow. “Savannah often seduced her victims by staring into their eyes.” He jostled the jar until both pupils were facing him. “She put what was in her head, into theirs. I suppose now that she’s gone, the only things left in these eyes are her last memories…”

He stared into the jar, letting his surroundings go blurry. A cool draft of air swept up the ancient corridors of Cadaver’s Peak and brushed Vincent’s patch of short black hair, but he barely noticed. He felt like he was becoming numb with each passing second.

And then—!

Freedom! Pure adrenaline coursed through Vincent’s body. He was flying! The town of Cadaver’s Creek stretched out before him, glittering like the cosmos on a moonless night. The rush of cold air on his face—! The sensation of weightlessness—! It was extraordinary!

Vincent glanced down to find that a pair of breasts had sprouted, the deathly-pale cleavage visible above the edge of his thin black corset. He was truly seeing through the eyes of Savannah Dusk, feeling as she felt!

His (or her?) stomach growled, and his fangs felt itchy. His first instinct was to find someone—someone alone, isolated, unprotected. Had he traveled back to that famous night and been given control of Savannah Dusk’s body? He felt that way; whenever he wanted to swing to the left or right, his body swung to the left or right. Or was he just audience to more than just her sight and sound, but her thoughts and impulses as well?

He swooped down, darting between the tavern and the inn, reveling in the terrified cries of the townsfolk below, before arcing upward to survey the town for signs of a back-alley loner.

Something hit him then—a sense that something was amiss. He felt violated. The urge to return to Cadaver’s Peak was too extraordinary to resist so he veered sharply and flapped back up to the castle.

He knew these corridors by heart and dove through the front doors without landing. Flying was so much faster, so much more exhilarating! His reaction speeds were unfathomable! Everything passed as though in slow motion. As he flew deeper into the castle, the sensation of violation became more and more intense.

Finally he found the source of his dismay: two men, standing in the underbelly of the castle. One stared into a jar filled with green liquid while the other cast nervous glances over his shoulder. Intruders! White-hot fury built in Vincent’s chest. He imagined dismembering both of them for this outrage, yanking arms and legs from their sockets, bathing in the blood of these criminals as it sprayed across the walls and ceiling. She would eat their necks and mount their severed heads on the fence, as a good friend of hers named Vlad had done centuries before.

The black-haired man was the true culprit; this much Vincent detected. His companion seemed nervous and fidgety—he was just a follower, an automaton following his elder’s orders. Vincent aimed for the black-haired man’s neck, opened his mouth and revealed his fangs—



* * *



“Good God!”

The jar shattered to the floor. Vincent felt himself flying through the air. He landed in a crumpled heap against the far wall.

“Mr. Pryce! Mr. Pryce!” Brett came running to his aid. Dizzy, Vincent lifted his head and looked around. Had it all been a dream? He saw no ominous black shapes gliding around the chamber, no bloodthirsty demons fantasizing about his neck.

Still, something was amiss. Blood dripped from Vincent’s mouth. He spit into his palm. Two teeth—perhaps dislodged in the impact—appeared in his hand. Moments later, jolts of electrical pain shot through his upper gum. He reached into his mouth and probed with his finger—

To find that a pair of fangs had sprouted.

“Mr. Pryce? Are you okay, Mr. Pryce?”

Vincent gazed up at Brett. His stomach growled and his fangs felt itchy. Worse, the boy’s head was still attached to the rest of his body and not mounted on a pike.

That would need to be remedied.