White Silence

Book 1: Elizabeth Cage

by Jodi Taylor

Genres: Occult & Supernatural; Thrillers; Supernatural suspense; Suspense; Paranormal

Synopsis

Elizabeth Cage is a child when she discovers that there are things in this world that only she can see. But she doesn't want to see them, and she definitely doesn't want them to see her. What is a curse to Elizabeth is a gift to others - a very valuable gift they want to control. When her husband dies, Elizabeth's world descends into a nightmare. But as she tries to piece her life back together, she discovers that not everything is as it seems. Alone in a strange and frightening world, she's a vulnerable target to forces beyond her control. And she knows that she can't trust anyone.... White Silence is a twisty supernatural thriller that will have you on the edge of your seat.

Release date: January 1, 2019

Publisher: Audible Studios

Print pages: 400

Sample

Prologue

People say, ‘Silence is golden’

They’re wrong.

Silence is white. White and deadly.

My name is Elizabeth Cage. I’m a widow. My husband, Ted, died suddenly.

They took me after the funeral. It was quick and it was quiet. No one knew where I was. There wasn’t a soul in the world who knew what was happening to me. There was no one I could call on for help.

I knew what they wanted but they haven’t got it yet and they never will. There’s more to me than meets the eye. I haven’t spent years cultivating the dowdy housewife appearance for nothing. To look at me – I’m a drab, insignificant, anxious, twenty-something housewife with unfashionable hair and no make-up. Unfortunately, my appearance is the only thing I can tell you about me. Because I don’t know who I am. I don’t know what I am.

Give me ten minutes with a total stranger and I can tell you things about them they don’t even know themselves. I can look at someone and I know. It’s not voices in my head, or visions, or anything like that, but I know. I know when you’re lying. I know when you’re frightened. I know when you’re bluffing. You don’t have to say a word, but you’re telling me, just the same.

Everyone has one. Some people call it an aura. Before I’d ever heard the term, when I was a child, I called it their colour. Everyone has one. A shimmering, shifting web of colours, constantly weaving itself around them, changing from moment to moment as they react to what’s going on around them. They’re all different. Some people’s colour has a defined shape, thick and even. Some colours are rich and strong and vibrant. Others are pale and insubstantial. Sometimes – and I hate this – there’s an ominous dark patch over their head or their heart, and I know that’s never good.

Sometimes, friends or family members have similar colours. Colours that are related in the spectrum. You may have noticed there are those for whom you feel a natural affinity. That will be because your colours are similar. Some people repulse you and you never know why, but it’s usually because your colours won’t merge.

When I was a child, there were three dustmen. One man, the noisy one, was a deep, royal blue; the older one was turquoise, and the young one a soft green. They came every Thursday morning. They ran up and down the street, shedding rubbish and shouting insults in equal measure, and yet their colours reached out towards each other, blending softly. I used to stand at the window, watching their colours swirl about them, a thing of wonder to a small girl. Sometimes, I can see the same thing with a mother and child. That gentle merging of colours as one shades into another.

But with good, comes bad.

I think I was about twelve years old. I was in the High Street in Rushford. The paper boy had missed us again and my father had sent me to pick one up. I stepped out of the newsagent’s with his paper wedged under one arm while I carefully peeled the wrapper off my ice cream.

The sun went in. That’s the only way I can describe it. The day grew dark and cold. The sounds of people and of traffic became distorted and ugly.

I looked up. Everything looked completely normal. I stared up and down the street. Cars passed backwards and forwards. People scurried about, in and out of the shops. But there was something. I knew there was something.

I stood stock still on the pavement, the stream of pedestrians parting around me.

And there it was. A woman. She strolled serenely towards me. There was nothing unusual in her appearance. On the contrary, she was well-dressed and made up and her white-blonde hair was beautiful. I felt my heart stop with fear and the thing that lives in my head said, ‘Hide.’

People are blind. They never see what’s really there. She walked slowly and I could see that although no one seemed to notice her, no one touched her. No one made eye contact. No one got in her way. They might not know why they were doing it – they might not even be aware they were doing it at all – but everyone was giving her a wide berth.

I stood, rooted to the spot. Terrified. Terrified of what was approaching and doubly so because no one seemed able to see it but me.

Yes, she had a colour, but it was the energy emanating from her that frightened me. Most people’s colours swirl a little bit, especially if they’re emotional at the time, but this one … it was as if she was encased in a thick black grease. I saw oily colours that made me feel sick. But the worst part was the movement. Her colour didn’t swirl – it spiked. Like a conker case. I’d never seen anything like it before. And the spikes moved, stabbing in and out. Fast and vicious. Never stopping. In and out. Some of them extended a good eighteen inches from her body.

I was only twelve. I had no idea if the spikes constituted defence or attack but I do know that, as I saw her – she became aware of me.

My ice cream fell to the ground, unheeded. It was suddenly very, very important that she shouldn’t see me. Or even know I was there. I slipped behind an advertising hoarding, easing my way around it as she drew nearer, and when she was level with me, she stopped.

I stopped too and held my breath.

She looked down at the ice cream splattered across the pavement and then she lifted her head, turning from side to side. I knew, I just knew, that she was seeking me out.

The two of us both stood motionless while everyone else, for whom this was just a normal day, streamed past us, intent on their Saturday morning business.

I still wasn’t breathing. I knew with certainty that to make even the slightest sound, the smallest movement would be a very, very bad thing. For me, anyway.

My chest and head were pounding and the pavement swam beneath me. And then, finally, she lifted her head on that graceful neck and began to walk away. I edged my way around the hoarding, watching her disappear into the crowd. She was so tall that her blonde head was easily visible. I watched her until I couldn’t see her any longer and then I turned and ran as hard as I could in the opposite direction.

I was only a child. I thought all monsters were ugly. That’s why they were called ‘monsters’. That was the day I discovered I was wrong.

I don’t know who she was or what she was. I’m sorry there’s no neat ending to that story, but I never saw her again. It was, however, the first time I realised that, as well as beauty, there was ugliness in this world. Evil, as well as good. And there were things out there that, for some reason, only I could see.

And they could see me.

Chapter One

All my life I’ve worked really hard at being really average. Exam results – good, but not brilliant. Achievements – respectable but not world-shattering. I used to spend hours carefully plotting how to come fourth at our school Sports’ Day. Not a winner, but the best of the rest. Good, but not quite good enough. I was quiet, well-behaved and – ironically – as colourless as I could make myself. Instinctively, I knew I must never expose myself, or something terrible would happen. Whether to me or to others was never clear.

I’d learned the hard way. I remember a playground quarrel when I told Rowena Platt that if she didn’t stop lying about who took the money from Suzanna Blake’s purse, I’d send the bogeyman to hide under her bed and eat her as soon as she fell asleep. She fled crying and there was a lot of whispering which stopped whenever I turned around.

There was a similar incident when I told another girl – whose name I forget – to lay off Sharon Tucker’s boyfriend. There was a bit of a punch-up after that and we were all dragged into our Year Head’s office.

My dad took me aside that evening and we sat in his little shed at the bottom of the garden.

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ I said, quietly. ‘I was just trying to help.’

‘I know, love.’

‘I can’t help it.’

‘You can’t, no.’

‘Sometimes, I just know things.’

‘You do, pet. Me and your mother, we’ve noticed that. The thing is, though, knowing things is all very well and good, but keeping them to yourself is better.’

‘But she was the one stealing Sharon’s boyfriend,’ I said, the memory of the injustice still fresh within me. ‘Why did I get the blame?’

‘Well, lass, was Sharon any happier when she knew?’

I had a brief memory of two girls rolling across the grass, tearing at each other’s hair as their friends egged them on.

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘You see, pet, some people think that somehow, saying something makes it come true.’

‘You mean they thought I’d somehow made her steal Sharon’s boyfriend?’

I remembered, in yet another flash, after they’d been hauled to their feet, the way everyone had stared at me …

‘And you, Elizabeth? How did you feel afterwards?’

I remembered Sharon Tucker, sobbing bitterly and declaring her life was over, and how I wished I’d kept my mouth shut.

I hung my head.

‘The thing is, lass, once something has been said, it can never be unsaid. You can’t unsay something any more than you can unhear it, either. You might want to think about that.’

‘What’s wrong with me?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with you, pet. Nothing at all. You just have a set of skills – unusual skills. Some people can sing. Some people can cook. Some people can play an instrument.’

‘And what can I do?’

He looked straight at me.

‘You know things. That’s all. All sorts of things. At the moment, you can’t control it – a bit like falling off a bike when you’re trying to learn – but one day you’ll get it under control. I think it’s important you control it and not the other way around.’

‘How do I control it? I don’t know how?’

‘Well, if you don’t practice the piano then you can’t play the piano, can you? Why not just try ignoring it? You know how it is – ignore something for long enough, and eventually it gives up and goes away. You think about it.’

I nodded. I’d hung around the outside of giggling groups often enough, waiting to be noticed, and it was true. When you find yourself ignored, sooner or later, with as much dignity as you can muster, you go away.

I took his advice. As best I could, I ignored it, and gradually the thing in my head … subsided. Not completely – it was rather like having a TV on in the background. I always knew it was there, but I didn’t have to listen.

And from that moment on, I kept my mouth shut at school and aimed at average. I think my school teachers thought that initially, I’d been attention seeking. Now I stayed apart and my classmates thought I was a snooty cow. But I’d learned my lesson. To keep quiet. And slowly, over time, the thing inside my head relaxed, closed its eyes and went to sleep.

As I grew up, I became better at filtering out the stuff I really didn’t want to know. I couldn’t turn it off completely, but I could relegate it to the back of my mind where it lurked quietly. Waiting.

‘Why me?’ I said to my dad, one day.

We were in his shed again. A magical place that smelled of wood and creosote into which he disappeared whenever, according to Mum, she had something important to say to him. I used to spend hours in there. I always remember it as being warm and golden, even in winter, and full of fascinating odds and ends. When I was small, I was allowed to hold his pencils and the tape measure. Later, I hammered the occasional nail, and even, once or twice, and with a great deal of apprehension on both our parts, my dad allowed me to saw something.

He shrugged.

‘Why can’t everyone else do this?’ ‘Because me and your mum, we think you’re special. We chose you, you know. Picked you out from all the others. Your mum, soon as she saw you, said you were the prettiest baby in the room.’

He picked up his pencil.

I’m sure I wasn’t, but it was just like him to say so. He’s been gone a long time now, and my mum even longer, but the memories they left behind are full of happiness and kindness, and a sense of security.

‘Did you know my parents at all?’

He shook his head. ‘I know what you’re thinking. Could one or both of them do what you can, and the answer is that I don’t know.’

He marked off his piece of wood and tucked his pencil behind his ear.

‘I never knew them or anything about them.’ He looked at me. ‘You could have a go at finding them. The law says you can do that now.’

Silence fell in the dusty little shed. He busied himself looking for screws in one of his many drawers, but I wasn’t deceived. I could see his colour, swirling around his head. My dad was a deep golden colour, rather like the pieces of wood he loved to work with, and when he became anxious or upset, a dark brown stain would begin to superimpose itself. Like ink in water. He was agitated now, although you’d never know it to look at him. Only I could see it.

‘No,’ I said, as casually as I could. ‘I know who my real parents have always been.’

He closed the drawer and gave me a hug. ‘That’s my girl. Now – can you hold this piece of wood for me?’

We worked together quietly for a while. Actually, I mean that he worked and I held things for him. It took a while to pluck up the courage to say it.

‘Daddy, we could be rich.’

‘We already are, lass, but I think I know what you mean.’

‘But perhaps, if I tried, we could win the lottery.’

‘Aye lass, maybe we could, but I reckon you’ve never heard the story of The Monkey’s Paw.’

I shook my head.

‘Well, there was a family – a mother, a father and their child. The man and the woman were very old. Their child came to them late in life.’

‘Just like us.’

‘Well, theirs was a son, but yes, just like us. Anyway, they weren’t very well off and one day, there came into their possession a monkey’s paw, and the story goes that if you made three wishes, then the monkey’s paw would make them come true.’

‘Really?’ I said, excited.

‘Ah, but – and it’s a pretty big but, lass – the wishes were granted in such a way that you wished you’d never made them in the first place.’

‘But …’ I said.

‘Ah, that’s what the mother said. “But …”’

‘What happened?’

‘Well, she reckoned she’d wish for a bit of money. Not a lot. She reckoned no good ever came of being greedy, so she wished for fifty pounds. A respectable sum in them days. She took hold of the paw …’ he clutched his Phillips screwdriver dramatically, ‘… and said, “I wish for fifty pounds.”’

‘What happened?’

‘Nothing. To begin with. Next day, their son went off to work. He didn’t come home.’

I could see what was coming.

‘A man from the company came around that evening. There’d been an accident at work, he said. Their son had been caught in some machinery. He was dead. He was very sorry. It wasn’t the company’s fault, he said, but here was a sum of money as a gesture of goodwill.’

I whispered, ‘How much?’

‘Fifty quid.’

I shivered.

‘That’s not the end of the story though. The old lady, she thought she saw a way to make things right. Grabbing the monkey’s paw again, she wished they could have their son back.’

I went cold. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing. To begin with. And then, faintly, in the far distance, they could hear footsteps. As if something was coming from a long way away.’

I held my breath.

‘And they weren’t normal footsteps, either. These dragged along the ground, as if whoever was approaching couldn’t walk properly. And the old man remembered what had been said about their son being caught in the machinery.’

He paused to rummage for something in a drawer.

I swallowed hard. ‘What … happened?’

‘The old woman was running to the door. To let whatever it was into the house. He tried to stop her but she was too strong for him. I suppose she was a mother and she just wanted to see her son again. She pushed the old man away and he fell to the floor. He saw a dreadful dark shape pass the window. He could only guess at what their son looked like after falling into all that machinery. All the time, the old lady was scrabbling to get the door open and any minute now …’

‘What did he do?’

‘He saw the monkey’s paw, lying on the ground where the old lady had thrown it. He picked it up, and just as she dragged open the door, he made the third and final wish.’

I couldn’t speak.

‘And when she finally got the door open, there was no one there.’

‘He wished their son to go away?’

‘No, lass, he wished they’d never had the monkey’s paw in the first place. Now, let’s go and see if your mum’s got the tea ready, shall we?’

I tried not to think about it, but I couldn’t leave it alone, so the next day I went to the library and read the story for myself. It frightened me so much I could hardly move. I had a vivid flash of my daddy, lurching through the front door with his limbs hanging off and his innards ripped out and his ribs so shattered that I could see his still beating heart. He was looking at me with a mixture of hatred and despair and love, even as he reached out for me. I slammed the book shut and ran from the library. I had nightmares for weeks afterwards.

And I became very, very careful about what I did and said.

My mum died first. I was about twelve. She went into hospital and never came out. Dad was quiet and sad for a long time afterwards. His colour was almost all brown. Especially around his heart.

Life went on, though, and we learned to do without her. I studied cookery at school, and we always had a special Sunday lunch, followed by watching football in front of the telly. Then I had chess classes after school on Thursday, and on Friday nights Dad went to his working man’s club. On Saturdays, we had fish and chips, and got a DVD in.

It wasn’t a bad life. Dad was a retired council worker who was now able to indulge his passion for joinery. He was sweet and plump and grey-haired and I loved him very much.

And then, two days before my twentieth birthday, he died too. Quietly, in his sleep, at home. I was devastated, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Everyone was very kind to me. I thanked everyone politely and just carried on. I would have been lonely if I’d known how.

I had a job in the council records office where they’d known my dad. After a few months, they’d sent me down to the basement to begin digitising the records stored there. It was a lonely little room, miles from the toilets and with no windows. No one else wanted to do it, but it suited me down to the ground. It became my own little kingdom down there. I set myself a daily target, had little races with myself, listened to music and was as happy as I knew how. I honestly thought that would be my life. That I was all set for the uneventful existence of an unmarried woman in a dead-end job in one of the most sedate market towns in the country. But the universe had other plans for me.

One day, about eighteen months after my dad died, I met Ted. Not straight away – I met the flasher and his puppy first, but Ted came along shortly afterwards.

I’d taken my lunch to Archdeacon’s Park, because it’s pretty there. The gardens slope down to the river and there’s a small lake with ducks and a few swans. I chose my usual bench, laid out my lunch beside me, and sat back to enjoy the sunshine. People were strolling around, throwing sticks for their dogs or feeding the ducks. It was all very pleasant and quiet. There were people around, but not too close. Close enough for me to feel as if I belonged, but not close enough to impact on me, which was just the way I liked it.

I ate my egg sandwiches, drank half my drink, nibbled my apple and cheese, and finished the rest of my drink. Just as I always did. I liked the unvarying routine of my life. It made me feel safe. Today was Friday and after lunch, I would return to my basement office, tot up the number of completed records for the week, enter the figures into the file management system, and send them off. I have no idea whatever happened to them after that, but that’s local government. You just keep doing something until someone tells you to stop.

The rest of my afternoon would be spent shelving the old files, pulling out the new ones ready for next week and tidying my desk. Once that was done, I was all set for the weekend. Clean the house on Saturday morning, go shopping in the afternoon, read the papers in the garden on Sunday morning, have a bit of lunch and then watch a film on TV. I like routine. It makes me feel safe. That afternoon, however, my life was about to change for ever.

I was just packing up my lunch box when a man plonked himself on the other end of the bench. I hardly noticed him because my attention was all on his puppy – which was exactly as cute as all puppies are. He snuffled around my ankles, not just his tail but his whole bottom wagging with excitement.

I smiled at them both. The man’s colour was a yellowy-brown – almost the same colour as his puppy. There was nothing to show he had any hostile intentions of any kind. He smiled back and said, ‘Would you like to stroke my puppy?’

I nodded. He stood up and it was suddenly very clear to me that it wasn’t his puppy he wanted me to stroke.

I remember, I felt no fear. More puzzlement as to what he thought he was playing at. I could see he meant me no harm. I put him down as a bit of an exhibitionist – no more than that, but there were children in the park, so I walloped him around the head with my plastic lunch box and walked briskly away. I didn’t look behind me, so I’ve no idea what he did next, but I called in at the police station to report him. I spoke to a very kind policeman whose colour was almost the same blue as his uniform, signed a statement and went back to work. I was a little late, but no one seemed to notice.

Because of my lateness, I had to bustle about to get everything done, which served to take my mind off what had happened. I did occasionally wonder whether I should be more upset than I actually was, but he’d never meant me any harm, I was sure of it. Mostly, I think, I just felt sorry for the puppy.

Anyway, that evening, there was a knock at the door and there stood Ted, although obviously, I didn’t know that at the time.

I saw a sturdy man of medium height, with a thick head of brown hair, eyes that were almost exactly the same colour, and the world’s most unflattering moustache. His colour was brown too, fitting neatly and tightly around him.

‘Miss Ford?’

‘Yes?’

‘Good evening. My name is Cage.’ He held up some ID. ‘I’ve come about the incident in the park this afternoon. May I come in?’

‘Yes, of course.’

I led him into the kitchen and offered him a seat at the table. ‘Would you like some tea?’

‘Very much,’ he said, looking around. ‘It’s been a long day.’

It was only a very long time afterwards that I realised he never once claimed to be a policeman. I just assumed …

‘Well,’ he said, stirring in two neat spoonfuls of sugar, ‘I have some good news for you. We’ve got him.’

‘Really? So soon?’

‘Yes, the silly ass tried something similar about an hour later. In exactly the same place, would you believe? We had a presence in the park at the time – more as a precaution than anything because we never thought he’d be stupid enough to come back again, but he did, complete with his puppy, and we arrested the pair of them. They both came quietly.’

His brown eyes twinkled at me over his cup and I couldn’t help smiling back.

‘The even better news is that you won’t have to testify in court. He’s confessed. Quite willingly. We’re not even sure he knows what’s going on around him most of the time. Quite harmless, but he should be in secure accommodation and from today he will be.’ He twinkled at me again. ‘We’ve even found a home for the puppy.’

‘So it’s true – our policemen are wonderful.’

‘Well, I certainly like to think so. Anyway, the important thing is that you’re quite safe, Miss Ford, and you can consider the incident closed.’

‘Well, that’s amazing. Thank you so much. And thank you for taking the trouble to call this evening to tell me.’

‘My pleasure. I have to say, it is nice to be the bearer of good news occasionally.’

‘I don’t suppose that happens very often.’

‘Not as often as I would like, no.’

There was an awkward pause. I watched his colour suddenly stream towards me, as brown and shiny as a new conker.

He cleared his throat.

‘Would you like another cup of tea,’ I asked, almost certain I knew the answer to that one.

He accepted the offer.

An hour later he offered to take me to dinner.

Six months later he offered me his hand in marriage.

Seven months later we were married.

Chapter Two

My life changed. Everything changed.

Ted had his own house and so, after a lot of discussion, we sold mine and put the money away.

‘For a rainy day,’ said Ted, which was typical of him. I sometimes think he was born in the wrong century. He would have fitted so neatly into the time between the wars. The 1930s were made for him. Or vice versa. He was a kind, gentle, paternal, family man. He loved to come home to his wife, so I gave up my job and became a housewife. I’m certain they laughed at me at work, but I didn’t care. I loved being a housewife. I loved being Ted’s wife. I would see him off in the morning and welcome him home at night. His house was small and easily kept clean – it wasn’t all vacuuming and dusting. I had time to sit with a coffee in the afternoons and read for a few hours.

In his spare time, he would work in his garden. There was a small lawn outside the back door with flower borders running around three sides. He grew roses and geraniums and dahlias and chrysanthemums – which he would tease me about because I can’t say the word. Behind the lawn, he grew his precious fruit and vegetables. Onions, peas, beans, marrows and raspberry canes. I would take him out a beer on hot afternoons, sitting on the garden roller and watching him work. He would cut the grass with an old-fashioned push mower because he liked the stripes. Every weekend he brought me in a b. . .