I had a hard time deciding what I would post this month, but I hope you enjoy a little of deus ex machina. A horror novel I started a month or so ago, enjoying my first literary love interest. This is only the rough draft of the first chapter. A chapter I have yet to complete. Rough draft means all the mistakes I’ve made are still there, waiting for a little editing. Myself, I love the imagery in those first opening paragraphs, and I’m sure this is the way a writer should start a novel. Enjoy.

　

deus ex machina - a work in progress by M. S. Sutton

　

Chapter One

　

A gray and brown sparrow deep in Blocker’s Woods caught a glimpse of unnatural movement below its perch. Beady black eyes watched a rectangular mound of short grasses, flowers, and soft rich dirt, shift under the freckled sunshine of an ordinary day. When a pale human hand trust itself out of the soft dirt into the warm humid air, the sparrow startled and flew away.

　

The hand was thin, and not very long. A child’s hand. Small craving fingers groped at the debris surrounding it, finding a short fat branch. It used the sturdy branch to pull against the soil a slim colorless wrist into view, and then an arm; then a pretty young girl in dirt-blackened rags out of her shallow grave.

　

She sucked at the clean warm air with newly formed lungs, gulp after gulp, brushing the loam from her desperate face. Out of her wild brown eyes tears flowed. She heard crickets trilling, frogs croaking, birds piping, and two squirrels chittering an argument over what she might be doing within their territory.

　

When she finally noticed them, both squirrels quieted. They had been frightened into silence. She felt their fear as clear as the sky was blue above her. They moved on, looking back once, but not twice.

　

Her grave then caught her attention, and she knew it for what it was. She stared at the hole, and her nose filled with the smell of this dirt. There remained a sense of home about the hole. Her lips, plump and red, contorted into a grimace of fear as whimpering sounds rushed past them.

　

Tears shed were not going to help her out of these woods. She swallowed her fear, dried her eyes with the back of her hand, and looked about, seeing nothing that would help. Sounds of civilization did not reach her ears. The sun seemed to be straight overhead. Which direction would see her safe?

　

A thought that was her and not her crossed her mind. She knew. She knew what she had to do. Eyes now closed, she stretched her mind outward, letting it flow in all directions. Each insect presented itself within her mind, driven to do or not do by hunger or scent, the cold yes or no logic within their tiny brains, and were all dismissed as distractions.

　

Animals hid themselves from her mind’s touch. They scrambled into burrows or under logs, secreting themselves behind clumps of leaves on branches, and they feared. She did them a kindness and soothed them with an image of darkness, lulling them into an early sleep.

　

Farther her mind stretched itself until it touched a fence. From this fence she followed the contour of the land up, and it led to a road. The road was gravel, not mud. Pavement would have been a sure sign of frequent travel, but gravel would have to do. She opened her eyes and began to walk.

　

There was no path to follow. Branches grasped at her like hands to be avoided. Tangles of underbrush frustrated her every step. When she tired she sat on a log, and heard her first true sign of civilization. It sounded like an old car or truck. It sped its way past her and on down the gravel road, still some distance away. It remained silent for quite some time, and then she heard another car or truck.

　

Sweat poured down her face, little tickles slid down her front and back, catching on the remaining fabric of her tattered dress. Her birthday dress. She had turned thirteen that day. She remembered unwrapping her beautiful summer dress, and wanting to wear it. And, in that moment, she remembered everything.

　

She remembered the party, the cake and ice-cream, her parent’s love, her little brother as a pest, her friends, and her best friend Robin. She walked Robin home after the party.

　

By herself, headed home, less than a half a block away from her house, a man came out from behind the Mason’s hedge and hit her in the face. She later opened her eyes and discovered he had shoved her to the floor on the passenger side of his nearby car. Under the wide vinyl dashboard. He growled at her to shut up. He hit her hard on the head with his fist when she did scream, and pulled a gun out from between his legs and jammed it into her face. The barrel of that gun looked wide and deep.

　

She remembered her fear, and running her tongue over the hole where a tooth had been. Without thought her tongue slid into the gap.

　

The man drove for quite a while that day, never uttering a single word toward her, but he whispered and giggled to himself the whole frightening trip.

　

Later that night, when he parked his car, he yanked her out from under the dashboard, and did things.

　

The man did many awful things to her. Yet, when the bad man was finished with her, he said he would grant her a kindness. He dragged her deep into the woods, pulled out a big knife, and sliced her open from groin to sternum and watched her die.

　

From above she watched as he did more things to her dead body, redressing her when done.

She watched as he dug a hole.

　

She watched as he whispered and giggled to himself, filling the hole with her inside.

　

She watched as he cleaned up his tools, cleaned up his car, changed his clothes and drove away, whispering and giggling to himself the whole while.

　

There was something wrong with the man. There was something inside him. Something old.

　

She then remembered the light that had summoned her and comforted her with its enveloping peace.

　

She stood and walked in the sound’s direction until the fence she knew was there presented itself. Four strands of rusted barbed wire stapled onto old wooden posts. Beyond that was a steep hill, and up that hill was the road.

　

She spread the middle two strands of barbed wire far apart and crawled through. It took some effort to scale the deep ditch, grabbing what she could of the surrounding vegetation, but she made it to the top. In the far distance she saw an old red barn amongst the trees. Maybe there was a house by the barn, or maybe not, but help had to be nearby. Her intuition told her to walk in the opposite direction, away from the barn.

　

A half mile down the road she saw a car, a bright yellow car, coming toward her. She knew there were two people in the car, a man and a woman, and that they were good people. She was safe.

　

The car slowed to a stop. She walked over to it, the woman inside rolled down her window and said, "Good lord, what happened to you?"

　

The man at the wheel said, "She looks like she’s in shock."

　

"Call an ambulance."

　

"We can’t call out on the cell from here, no signal."

　

"Sweetheart," the woman said. "Can you hear me?"

　

She nodded, and tears began to flow down her cheeks for the second time.

"Would you like to sit by me?" the woman asked, and opened the car’s door. "There’s a small hospital nearby. We’ll take you there."

　

She moved around the door and the woman squeezed over to the middle of the seat. She climbed in and shut the door, locking her seat belt in place. The woman pulled a tissue out of the purse in her lap, and offered it. She dabbed her eyes and cheeks with it, the woman handed her another tissue, and she blew her nose.

　

"I’m Hunter Reed," the woman said, "and the old man behind the wheel is Richard Reed. Do you know who you are?"

　

"My name is Georgie," she said. "Georgie Beach."

　

Hunter Reed asked, "Do you know how you got out here?"

　

She shook her head. Yes, she knew, but what she knew, what she had evoked, was best kept to herself. Such good people should not know evil so intimately.

　

"That name . . ." Richard Reed said. "Georgie Beach vanished five years ago, I think. It was all over the news for weeks. You can’t be that Georgie Beach, you look as old now as the day she disappeared."

　

Richard looked her over until his wife told him in no uncertain terms to watch the road. There was no more conversation after that short exchange, not for several miles. Hunter, a shapely woman in her early thirties with short brown hair, tried not to stare at her, and watched either her husband or the road. Richard looked like the farmer he was, with his rugged work shirt and ball cap. He was clean shaven, but with his graying hair, looked older than Hunter by a good ten years. They turned onto a two lane highway before Hunter broke the silence, saying, "Ten more miles and we’ll be in Warner. Have you ever been to Warner?"

　

"I don’t know," Georgie told her.

　

"Do you remember how old you are?" Reed asked.

　

"I’m thirteen," Georgie said.

　

"I remember thirteen," Hunter said. "Too old to play with dolls, but young enough to collect them. I collect dolls to this very day. I have over a hundred, and know all their names."

　

"She has a whole room for them dolls," Richard said with a chuckle. "And she does know all their names."

　

"They’re like little people. My favorite doll is Shelly. She was the very first doll I bought myself. She has long black hair, a pretty summer dress that’s sky blue, and dark blue shoes that buckle on the side."

"She sounds pretty," Georgie said. "I can’t remember if I have any dolls."

　

Hunter looked at Richard, and Richard looked at Hunter. Neither said anything after that. They drove into Warner, through the business district, and turned into a large busy parking lot.

　

The sign over the door said Emergency, and that’s where they parked. Georgie opened her door, waited for the Reeds to lead her inside, and sat down with Hunter while Richard explained things to the nurse at the front desk.

　

Georgie felt the spirituality of this place. The walls of the emergency room choked with pain, sadness, and death. Chairs were filled with apprehension or relief. Ghosts that lingered were old, tired, fading; a chill in the air as they passed. The staff countered all this with optimism and humor.

　

Within moments two nurses and a doctor arrived and led her into a private room. Hunter tried to follow.

　

"I’m sorry ma’am," one nurse said. "You’re not a parent, not a relative, or legal guardian. You’ll have to remain in the waiting room."

　

To which the other nurse said, "We’ll let you know how she’s doing. Give us some time to sort things through."

　

Once the examination room door was closed they asked her questions. Lots of questions. Who she was. Where did she live? What happened to her. Were the Reeds responsible for her condition? She answered only what she thought best to answer, protecting both the Reeds and herself, feigning ignorance, leaving the doctor to speculate on possible neurological stress or damage, brought about by her apparent ordeal.

One nurse gave the doctor a knowing look, and the doctor returned that look with a nod. Georgie knew she had left the room to contact the authorities, the detectives in charge of her case, and from there her parents would be contacted.

　

The doctor, a stern man in his forties, clean shaven, dressed in blue scrubs, examined her closely, head to toe, noting no apparent injuries, but there was a large amount of dried blood on her dress. She shrugged her shoulders when asked.

　

"Aside from the scratches on your legs," the doctor said, "and the dirt, you seem as healthy as a horse. The nurse here is going to clean you up and give you a set of clothes like my own. Is that okay?"

　

"Okay," she said.

　

"While I’m at it," the nurse said, "maybe we can find some foam slippers for your feet. I have a pair at home I wear all the time."

　

Which was a lie. Georgie could see it in her eyes, the lie. Knew it was such the moment it tumbled from her lips. The doctor closed the door behind him when he left.

　

"Why do people lie?" Georgie asked. "Telling the truth is easier."

　

"I don’t understand," the nurse replied.

　

"You lied to me about the slippers."

　

"A little white lie so you would wear the slippers. I didn’t mean anything by it. They’re warm, from what I’ve been told, and comfortable."

The second nurse then returned with a set of greens, as she called them, and together they waited. Georgie knew they were waiting for a female police officer to arrive.

　

"Are you hungry, Georgie?" the first nurse asked. Her name was Lidia Jones, according to the name tag, and had worked in the Emergency department for ten years. Nurse Jones was blond, wide in the hips, and wore granny glasses. She had on pink scrubs.

　

The second nurse, Marta Gonzales, was taller than Nurse Jones by a head, and had reddish brown hear she tied back in a long braid. Her name tag declared her a nurse in the Emergency department for three years, she also wore pink scrubs.

　

"A little hungry," Georgie replied. She was, too. "And thirsty."

　

"I’ll be back in a few moments," Nurse Gonzales said. "The nurse’s lounge has a few things in the refrigerator for occasions like this, and a pop machine by the door."

　

Two police officers arrived before Nurse Gonzales returned. One was male, the other was female. The male officer did not enter the room, but the female officer did. She quietly asked the nurse pull a rape kit and follow the prescribed procedure.

　

With the female officer watching, they removed her clothes and put them in a paper bag, sealing it with tape found in a separate drawer. The female officer signed and dated the bag, noting the time the her clothes had been collected.

　

The nurses combed her hair and used a plastic bag to collect what had been teased from the strands. They did the same for her pubic hair.

　

Nurse Gonzales held her hands, and Nurse Jones scraped what had been under her fingernails into a separate baggy, sealing that, handing it to the officer.

　

They then swabbed her mouth, vagina, and anus, sealing and bagging those.

　

Pictures were took by the female officer.

　

"Now we can clean you up proper," Nurse Jones said. "Put these on. We’ll take you up to a private room on the fourth floor, where they have a proper shower. The doctor wants to keep you overnight for observation."

　

"I managed you a pudding cup and a cola," Nurse Gonzales said. "Nurse Jones will get a wheelchair for you, following hospital policy."

　

"Do you have a spoon?" Georgie asked.