Descent Macabre

By Kat O'Connor

Every city has its secrets.  Ordinary people live their lives oblivious to the darkness that lurks just beneath the surface.  In a world with no heroes, no saviors, a woman is snatched from her idyllic existence by a man she had called a friend.  Left floundering and with no good options, she must find her own way back to the light.  Will she discover the path that leads her to redemption, or do all choices lead to despair?

Psychological paranormal horror.  18,000 words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pomoconsumption Press
• Release date: May 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781501403682

Kat O'Connor

Kat O'Connor is a Midwest native, but born with an Irish passion that was a bit too big for a small town. After studying in the New York metro area and, briefly, in London, she settled in Chicago more or less by accident.  There she pursues a career in multi-disciplinary arts. She has shown her fine art portrait photography in galleries around Chicago and New Jersey.  A collaborative performer who is equal to the challenge of co-creating a story, she has been featured in a number of independent films, including Hatboxes (Fernwork Productions), For the Trees (FukFashion Inc.), and The Dog (Featurepoint Cinema).  She is a company member of Terra Mysterium Performance Collective, and has performed with them both musically and theatrically at the Chicago Fringe Festival, a variety of storefront theatres and community festivals, and in a recently released single and music video. In her spare time she practices aerial circus arts and reads tarot. Kat is a natural storyteller, with words or, just as often, without. Her personal mission is to tell the story, and thus change the world, one heart at a time. She lives next to a cemetery with her partner and her black cat Púca, named after an Irish fae.  Descent Macabre is her first book.

Book preview

For one still, perfect moment, the only sound was the soft puff of her breath as it escaped from her lips, crystallized, and drifted away on the frigid winter breeze.

What in the world am I doing wearing a micro-miniskirt in this weather? came the absurd thought a heartbeat later, shattering the moment.

She wrapped her long black coat more tightly around herself as she walked the remaining distance down the alley to the door, the block heels of her knee-high black boots clop-clopping on the pavement.  What was she doing?  She had dressed by instinct, distracted, preoccupied, and had found her way here seemingly through no conscious choice.  She was simply here, and only vaguely aware of traveling the distance from her apartment.  What was she doing coming back here at all?

Returning to the scene of the crime.

She was angry, but outwardly calm, and if she’d dared admit it to herself, more than a little frightened.  A three-day chunk was missing from her memory.  And during that time, someone had apparently been very busy.

She paused at the door, the low beat of the music throbbing its way quietly through the thick steel panel, and realized she was shaking.  From anger.  From fear.  Fear of what she might learn on the other side of that door.  Fear of her unknown attacker.

Fear of herself.  Fear of what she was becoming.

Violated.  Powerful forces surging through her, and no certainty at all that she could control them.  The fear had come first.  But the anger had been building over the past four days since she’d awakened, and was now dangerously close to rage.

She yanked the door open.

As she entered, the music flowed over and around her, primal, haunting, sensual.  The bouncer asked for her ID; she showed it to him, paid the cover, checked her coat.  There was a good-sized crowd inside the small club, but it wasn’t crowded – just as she liked it.  The Friday night regulars were probably already ensconced in their respective dark corners, or swirling amidst the flow of bodies on the dance floor.

She walked up the three steps to the bar, moving easily through the throng.  She was glad she was wearing her heels.  With them she was a dead even six feet tall, eye-to-eye with most men and taller than some, and they made her feel powerful, intimidating.  And tonight of all nights she had no desire to be reminded of her vulnerability.

Sliding her way between two small clusters of people, she leaned against the rail overlooking the dance floor, scanning the crowd.  Several familiar faces were already present.

Who was it?  The one thing she had loved about this culture, this club, was that she could come here and dress, move, act, be as sensual as she wanted and no one would try to make a pass at her or touch her without permission.  Goths, she knew, respected each others’ space.

But no more.  That easy sense of security had been ripped away along with three days’ worth of missing time.  Someone had violated the unspoken rule.  Who was it?

Nearly everyone was suspect.  She had spent most of last Friday night hanging with the other regulars, but she had danced, as usual, alone amongst the crowd.  Pretty much anyone could have seen her, decided that they wanted to possess her.  It could have been some hidden personal vendetta (but damned if she knew of anyone she had offended in recent history) or a whim, for all she knew.

Her eyes scanned back and forth, flicking from corner to shadow, taking it all in, the shapes in the darkness now more distinct, sharply defined, and – gods forbid – even more beautiful than ever they had been before.  Black clothing, white skin, grey shadows.  Eyes shining with life in the dim light.

Eyes shining...  There was Aldeus, serene as usual, leaning against the back wall, a drink in his hand, a cascade of lace at his throat.  Behind him his dim, murky reflection mirrored his movements as he sipped and casually watched the dancers with his typical half-smile.

And Cleo, pale blonde waif, undulating and flowing among the other dancers.  Cleo, the very definition of a little slip of a girl, in a shimmering, red-black slip dress, tiny butterflies in her whitish-blonde, untidily spiked pixie cut, iridescent glitter around her eyes, dark maroon lips standing out starkly in contrast to the white of her face.

And Arin, sitting next to the DJ booth, sandy hair dyed in streaks of midnight blue and worn just long enough to hang perpetually in his eyes.  He was dressed head to toe in black PVC, and was leaning with his elbows on his knees, intent on a conversation with two or three others.

Eyes shining with life...  Her hands suddenly gripped the rail, knuckles turning white.

From across the room, his gaze locked with hers; his eyes black, liquid pools, glittering with flecks of a preternatural red light.  In her new sight, his eyes were brighter, more glorious than any others’ – but it was not life that lit them.

Damien.

Unconsciously, her lip lifted in a feral

Reviews for Descent Macabre

[handybear · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I received this to review and although it was a little dark for me it was well written and easy to read. It was a short story so was a quick read. It was not your typical vampire story but was the story of Kat who had been suddenly ripped from her life and loved ones by a vampire. The story followed her as she came to grips with what happened to her and to the what she would become. I found the ending a little sad but it did leave an window that hinted at more.