Life in Amber

By scott colbert

Evan Dufort is miserable and unhappy with life. He misses his recently deceased cat, has few friends and plagued with illnesses. When he wins the lottery he decides to take his best friend Kaden on an adventure. Unfortunately everyone they seem to come in contact with dies. 

Are his winnings cursed or is there something darker at work? What do the dreams of amber coffins and crucified children mean? For these unlikely friends, the answers are going to take them on a trip that will test not only their bond, but their sanity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bandersnatch Books
• Release date: Sep 7, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386606697

scott colbert

Phoenix resident Scott Colbert is a transplanted New Yorker. Prone to send pictures of his cat to random strangers, you can listen to him babble on various podcasts and his website thesupernaughts.com

Book preview

It is not death that a man should fear, but he should fear never beginning to live.

Marcus Aurelius

Author’s Note

This novel has been a long time in coming. Well, not this particular story, but this book. It’s taken nearly ten years to write a follow up to my novella Barbed Wire Kisses, and I’m sure many gave up hope I’d ever write another book again. I know I did. It wasn’t for lack of trying, as my hard drive is littered with half-finished, barely begun, and fragments of ideas that for one reason or another never seemed to get finished. I could offer up a host of reasons, or excuses to be more honest about why that is, but really, it doesn’t matter. I’ll save that for the armchair analysts and others who have more free time and interest in such things than I do.

Even this story was a struggle at times. I began this on the 7th of August, 2017, and finished it in April of 2018. There were days and sometimes weeks when I didn’t touch it, but I was always drawn back to the story of Evan, Kaden and that wonderful ghostly kitty Susannah. I owed it to them to tell their tale. I owed it to myself to finish their adventure. Most of all, I owed it to you, the reader who has waited patiently for me to finally get my ass in gear and put out something new.

Those of you expecting a balls to the wall horror fest like Barbed Wire Kisses will be disappointed. This is a deliberately paced tale with horrific elements, but at the end of the day, the story of two unlikely friends. I’ve taken to calling it a dark adventure rather than a horror story because while there are scenes of a nightmarish quality, it’s a more subdued, a gentler piece than what I’ve written before.  Some would probably say I’ve grown up, and they’re not wrong. I have, finally.

Life in Amber would never have been possible without a little video that my good friend and Imaginarium co-host  Todd Staruch posted on Facebook one day last summer. The balloon that opens my novel was the same balloon that graced Todd’s video (well not the same one, his didn’t have SpongeBob on it).  From that twenty second clip came what you’re about to read and you can either thank Todd or curse him for giving me the idea.

Thanks also to my dear friend Jay Proctor (aka Wade Radford) for being my own Kaden. Any similarities between the two are purely intentional. Jay encouraged me and cajoled me to finish this, so you can blame him as well. Or thank him as you see fit. Everyone should have a Kaden in their life, and I’m very grateful that Jay is mine, as his friendship has been the only thing that’s kept me sane over the past few years.

A special thanks to my friend and frequent guest on Imaginarium, Jerry Janda for being the first to read this and saying some nice things about it. His comments were very helpful, and his friendship a privilege.

As always my thanks and love go out to my family, especially my Mom who has always gone above and beyond what a mother should have to do, and never complaining about it.

Finally, thank you, dear reader, for sticking around while I worked on this. I hope you find the wait worthwhile.

Scott Colbert, June 20, 2018

Prologue

It begins, as every thorough account of the paranormal does: with a dream. I’m sitting in an overstuffed chair in the lobby of a hotel. There’s not a soul around, aside from myself and the clerk. His back is to me as he does some paperwork, unconcerned about the lack of customers.

A Mylar balloon floats by at knee level. It’s losing helium and is folding in on itself. There’s a cartoon on it, SpongeBob SquarePants. I watch it get taken away by the breeze from the air conditioning, and in a moment it disappears behind a column. I stand up, knees popping, and hips aching, to follow the low flyer. I have no idea where it came from; instead, I’m more curious about where it’s going. Air conditioning aside, it seems to move with purpose, as if it’s on a mission. There is a white string attached to it that drags along the ground like a shadow.

I follow behind, walking carefully, almost afraid to make my presence known. No, not almost, I am scared. On the surface, there is nothing to fear. The hotel itself is unduly bright, the fluorescent lights bleaching everything of its usual color. The balloon is innocuous enough, yet...

Yet...there is something still not quite right. It stops, slowly turning and pauses as if looking at me with the vast, blue SpongeBob eyes. I hold my breath, not wanting to make a sound. It turns to the side and floats down the left-hand corridor. The hum of the air conditioning stops, and the silence becomes pervasive, almost as if someone has stuck cotton balls in my ears. I trail behind as pressure begins to build inside my head. I clamp a thumb and forefinger around my nose and hold my breath to get my ears to pop, but this only seems to intensify the clogged feeling. At the far end of the corridor are double doors, the entranceway to a suite or conference room.

The balloon seems to pick up speed, and when it bounces against the doors, they open gradually. A brilliant light starts to pour out, but it isn’t blinding; it is, if not soothing, then at least makes me feel a bit more relaxed. There’s a humming sound, not the air conditioning this time; it comes from inside the room as well, though it has a higher pitch and is faster. Rhythmic.

The balloon disappears into the chamber, and I follow after. It takes my eyes a bit to adjust to the brightness, and when they do, I emit a soundless scream. I may as well be in the vacuum of space, as any noise I make is siphoned away.

This is no conference room. It’s nothing I have ever seen before. Coffins made of amber line the expanse; they are all on stainless steel tables with drains beneath them. I look at one and see the remains of my Uncle Albert who had died decades earlier. His blue eyes bulge and his mouth opens and closes like the gills of a fish in its death throes. His gaze turns to me and pleads for me to do something. My heart sinks; Uncle Albert had always been my favorite Uncle. He was Uncle Al, the kiddies pal. While that may sound a bit creepy in today’s world, back then there was no malicious intent at all.

I place my hand on top of the amber and feel it vibrate. His eyes widen and are the first parts of his body to explode. His blood and gore paint the inside of the coffin. I turn away, hand over my mouth. I look at the wall in front of me and see children pinned to it, the way you’d pin butterflies in a collection.

Unlike the butterflies, these children are alive. There is one large pin through the abdomen and four smaller bolts in the hands and feet. Their eyes and mouths are sewn shut, and they wriggle weakly. In spite of the mutilations, I recognize them-they are classmates of mine from elementary school. The bullies, brats, and hostile children of divorce. As if sensing my presence their struggle intensifies, and while I can’t hear anything they mumble, I feel their emotions. The hate and judgment and blame are all directed at me as if I’m responsible for nailing them to the walls.

There are six of them stuck to the wall. Each has on a white t-shirt with a number scrawled on it in their own blood? Ichor? It made no difference, as I memorize the digits, 6, 27, 32, 11, 47, and 52. There seems to be no discernible pattern to the almost randomly generated lottery numbers. As this thought enters and occupies my mind, the light in the room blossoms until I can no longer see. I’m hesitant to walk, not wanting to bump into the amber coffins. I shuffle along with my hands out in front of me, and I feel the balloon brush against my face. I’m finally able to let loose a scream, and it coincides with the balloon popping.

The sounds jolted me out of my sleep. Sweat covered my body and drenched the thin sheet over me, in spite of the chill in the room. I grabbed my phone, opened the note app and fumble typed the numbers I’d seen before I forgot them. I set the phone down and looked for a pack of cigarettes, forgetting for a moment I had quit two years earlier. I sat on the edge of the bed, a futon truth be told, and hugged myself, as the cold air dried the sweat on my aging skin.

I picked up my phone again and saw the date, September 13th. My birthday.

I was 50.

Stuffing my feet into my slippers, I rose, and began my day, even as the dream started to fade. It was time for my insulin. Birthday or not, diabetes doesn’t take a vacation. I could have been 10, or 20, or hell, even 80 for all that mattered, the fact was, I didn’t care.

Not about birthdays, not about me, and not about life.

Chapter One

By the time I walked the two blocks to work at the convenience store, I could feel my calves cramping already. While not as bad as it had been at times, it was still enough to cause a bit of a limp. I stepped inside and was grateful for the air conditioning. I stopped right inside the door and looked at the line that started at the counter and wound around the store. I hurried into the backroom to clock in, got my register ready and spent the next four hours selling lottery tickets. The jackpot was 467 million, and the entire country was obsessed with winning.

You can’t win if you don’t play! I’d heard more than once.

You can’t lose either, I would often reply, and that would be met with a pitying look hurled in my direction.

Angel, my assistant manager, stayed over to help with the crowd. He was half my age, with twice the amount of hair on his head, and a far more pleasant personality than my own, I had concluded long ago that I didn’t like people. I loved my family and friends, and generally got along with most of society, but as a whole, I was far more comfortable in my own company. Angel placed his hands on the small of his back and stretched. Think I’ll go into the cooler and stock it. I’ve about had enough of this shit tonight.

Have at it, I said, I can handle the stragglers, junkies, deviants, and reprobates. He looked at me, scrunched up his nose in confusion, making him look like a rabbit with shoulder-length black hair. I could tell he was about to say something but decided not to. He grabbed a jacket from the back room and went into the cooler. There wasn’t a lot to stock. Most every purchase was lottery tickets, fountain drinks or cigarettes: maybe a combination of them. The drawing wouldn’t be until the next night, so we hadn’t even seen the worst of it yet. All I could think was how glad I was not to be working then. There was nothing I wanted more than to be away from work and the chaos a record-breaking lottery would inspire. The night of the lottery drawing was always the worst. The closer it came to drawing time the more irate the customers got. The lottery commission stopped the machines five minutes prior, and God help anyone at the register if a customer didn’t get their ticket.

I glanced at the clock on the wall and saw it was quitting time. I buzzed Angel in the cooler, and let him know I was taking off. He frowned a bit, and I offered to stay.

Nah, you go. I’ll be fine. He watched as I counted out my drawer and finished up the paperwork. I clocked out, grabbed a drink and saw the last of the lottery slips on the counter. I took one, filled it out with the numbers I had dreamed then added that to my Coke Zero. You too? Angel said with a smirk.

Hey, I’m not getting younger; I have a retirement to think about. Angel laughed handed me my copy which I stuffed in my pocket. I said my goodbyes and left, making the walk home on legs that were threatening to give out on me if I didn’t sit down soon.

I unlocked the deadbolt on my door, opened it, and stepped inside. I looked to my right where the cat condo was, expecting to see my princess Susannah, even though I had to send her over the rainbow bridge six months earlier. I touched it affectionately, and the pain of her loss hit me all over again. She was my first fur baby and 13 years didn’t seem long enough. I loved that tabby with all my heart and wished every day she was still here to greet me. Susannah wasn’t an affectionate cat. She wouldn’t jump in my lap, but she would stretch out beside me when I went to bed on occasion and loved to give me head bumps. Most of all though, she kept me from feeling lonely.

I set my phone on the coffee table, stepped out of my clothes and threw on a worn t-shirt and basketball shorts. Falling onto the couch, I reached for the remote, clicked the power button, and then opened up my laptop. I checked my email, scanned my twitter feed, and looked through my Facebook stuff. It was a dance I waltzed through, many, many times a day. That’s not to say I didn’t browse other sites, as I did, but it was a pattern and a comfortable one that helped pass the time.

My messenger popped up, and there was only one word, Skype? The message was from my friend Kaden who lived in the UK. I glanced at the clock, did the math and realized it was 5 AM there.

Can’t sleep?

Not for nothin’.

Give me a minute.

I opened up the Skype app, waited for it to load and made some coffee. I knew Kaden would be at least ten minutes, he always was. Time meant less to him than it did to me. When I was his age, nearing 26, time was something I had plenty of and squandering it meant nothing. Two and a half decades later though, and it was as precious as gold. I filled my cup, sat back down on the couch, which grunted under my ever increasing weight, and plugged in my headset.

As I figured, he was MIA, so I sipped my coffee, browsed through the emails again, and waited. When the little notification window appeared, I switched over and waited for his call. In spite of the pain in my legs and the exhaustion from work, his invitation was just what I needed. He was the little brother I never had, and I was-well, God knows what I was to him, but it didn’t matter, We were friends, and he was the only one able to lift me out of my depressions (which were getting worse as the years went on).

The long beep went off in my ear, and I clicked the connect button. After a bit of static, his Northern UK accent came through. You alright? he asked.

The first time he said that I thought he was concerned about something, but no, just his way of saying hey, how are you?

Yeah, tired, just got home from work. Wine not working tonight?

Nothing is, that’s why I rang,

Oh, do I put you to sleep? I said in my most sarcastic tone.

Kaden laughed, and called me a rude name, and crept down his stairs to have a smoke in his garden.

Anything wrong?

Silence.

Just some twisted dreams. The kind of shite you’re always reading. He gave another laugh, and I heard the click of the lighter as he took the first drag.

What was it about? I asked, thinking about my dream, the bits I recalled anyway.

I don’t remember much at all, just something about a balloon and a room full of amber coffins.

I said nothing; I was too stunned. Some more of the dream came back, trickling down like a slow leak in the ceiling. I saw the coffins again, saw my Uncle’s face gasping when I placed my hands on the lid. The muffled sound as his corpse exploded.

Goddammit! I wish I still smoked!

You there? ‘allo?

I’m here Kaden, sorry.

I thought we’d gotten disconnected.

I chuckled. Give it time, we will. I wanted to tell him about my dream and was so close to doing it I could see the words dancing on the fabric covered mike on my headset. I’d burdened Kaden with everything about me. Well, most everything. I never hid anything from him and was always honest. In my half-century on this planet, he’s genuinely the only one I could say that about; I couldn’t say anything about the dream though. I was afraid and embarrassed. Worse, that he might think I was putting him on, so I kept quiet but all through the rest of our two hours chatting, it never left my mind. When we finally did disconnect (because I heard him snoring, so I had put him to sleep), I pulled off my headset, closed the laptop and laid down on the couch. I wondered if somehow he was sharing my dreams.

Don’t be stupid; there are plenty of reasons he could have had those dreams. You’re not all that important.

I knew it was silly, but all the same, there was something which resonated with the idea. I fell asleep thinking about it but had no dreams that night.

None I could remember anyway.

Chapter Two

While I’d had no dreams that didn’t mean it was free from distractions. I woke up somewhere around four to pee. One of the benefits of growing older and having an enlarged prostate was the ability to need to pee at a second’s notice. I stumbled to the bathroom, did my business and shuffled back to bed. I laid down, and as I was wont to do, had my hand hanging off the side of the bed.

Now, that was something I tried not to do, since when I was small and had a nightmare about the monster under the bed biting my hand off. After I got Susannah that changed a bit, as I knew she would protect me, not to mention would rub her head against my hand until I scratched her under the chin or behind the ears. As I lay there half asleep, I felt her rub against me, and I immediately went to scratch her, but nothing was there. I peered over the side and saw two shining eyes looking in my direction.

I let out a scream which I’m sure the neighbors appreciated. The only light was a floor lamp across the room, so I grabbed my phone, turned it on, and shone the screen down on the floor. Nothing. No eyes, no cat, nothing. I set the phone on the table, wiped away some sweat from my face with the top sheet and began wondering (and not for the first time) if I was finally losing my mind. Others would be sure of it, as they’d always suspected I wasn’t far from the looney bin as it was.

I’d had dreams about Susannah before, just as I’d had about my Mother right after she died, but where my dreams about her were warm and loving tableaus, the thoughts of my cat were more like nightmares. It’s not as if anything fearsome happened, but the sense of dread seemed overwhelming and damned near cataclysmic. I’d wake up from them in a cold sweat, sure something appalling had occurred, but it was all lost in the loose and flimsy fabric of sleep.

Knowing sleep would be a fruitless pursuit, I sat up on my futon and turned on the TV. I lay there, and in spite of no longer being tired, I fell back asleep. When I awoke, the sun was out, with rays of light slipping in between the cracks of the blinds. I heard the leaf blowers in the distance, while the garbage collectors emptied the big green trash bins. In other words, it was another typical Wednesday.

I sat up, stretched, and counted out the morning pills, seven in all plus the inhaler, and the insulin. As you get older and watch your parents and relatives rely on pills, creams, ointments, oils, and all manner of medicines to stave off the inevitable, you never think you’ll be that dependent on chemicals. But then comes diabetes, and then the high cholesterol, followed by high blood pressure, COPD, arthritis, and whatever else a decaying body decides to throw at you. Any day where you don’t wake up with a new ache or pain is a good day.

So, in that respect, that morning signaled a good day, in spite of the phantom cat. I took my pills, washed them down with some cold coffee, measured the syringe with 60 units of insulin, and was ready to start my day, which would consist of...nothing. With no shift scheduled for work, I had nothing to do. I’d become somewhat of a recluse over the previous few years, as going out anywhere appealed to me less and less as the calendar pages grew into an ever-increasing pile. The feeling of isolation was intensified by no longer having Susannah with me. Well, I had an urn with her ashes and her paw print in plaster, but it wasn’t the same.

More than my Mother’s death, more than a relationship ending, more than losing a job, or being evicted, the most painful loss to deal with was losing my baby girl. Yes, she wasn’t exceptionally affectionate, but she loved me unconditionally. She was my best buddy, and I’d yammer at her even though she couldn’t care less what I was saying let alone understand it.

I puttered into the kitchen to make some fresh coffee, grabbed a mug from the cabinet, a spoon from the drawer, and the hazelnut creamer from the refrigerator. I set everything up on the counter in