Torch-wielding villagers drag a hideously deformed woman out of a cave, nail her to a tumbrel, and dunk her in a lake. She then throws a curse on everybody, and threatens to return in a screechy, vague manner.
If I was capable of human emotion, I would feel bad for the She Beast. Sure, she's no Victoria's Secret model, but I don't think she deserves being dunked in a lake. I'm not entirely certain what she did that was worthy of having an angry mob wave crucifixes at her, and I don't think it was mentioned. Those dumb peasants probably think she turned someone into a newt. Regardless, torch-wielding villagers really tick me off. If I had a nickel for every time some angry mob protested outside my penthouse waving torches and screaming about how awful I am, I'd have 35 cents. Since it happens so often, I went ahead and created a "First Amendment Zone" where they can protest all they'd like. It's three blocks away, down a dark alley near some dumpsters that smell like hot garbage, vomit, and parmesan cheese, and in the opposite direction from the Chinese restaurant I frequent that has the potstickers I like so much. That way I don't have to see them and their stupid cardboard banners asking for "safe working conditions" and "living wages". Seriously, torch-wielding villagers shouldn't judge a book by its cover. Just because I have horns, a tail, and carry a pitchfork, some of the more superstitious out there think I'm some sort of bad guy. Whatever. Those protesters should consider themselves lucky I no longer dump hot garbage, vomit, and parmesan cheese on them from the gargoyles I installed on the top of the building, and by "I no longer dump hot garbage, vomit, and parmesan cheese on them" I mean they're too far away to reach now in the court-ordered "First Amendment Zone".
Anyway, back to the movie. Hundreds of years later, Barbara Steele drinks some tea and garlic in the She Beast's village, and an old guy in a swing warns them about an outbreak of sorcery, which is something people should be worried about. After some decadent, capitalistic voyeurism and a missing distributor cap, Barbara Steele's Volkswagen crashes into a lake. Then someone pulls The She Beast out of the lake instead of Barbara Steele, which seems somewhat unlikely because Barbara Steele resembles a Victoria's Secret model and the She Beast looks like a 200-pound melting candle.
Summing up, The She Beast drags when the She Beast or Barbara Steele aren't on screen, even though the She Beast and Barbara Steele's acting abilities are pretty much on par with one another. While I wouldn't go so far to recommend it, I wouldn't stop you from watching it either.