John Miller first noticed the cold spot eight days ago and it had really started to get to him. He stood, a little unsteady, in the centre of his living room and took another large gulp from his whisky bottle, glaring into the corner furthest from the door. The thing was a bloody nuisance.
He took another gulp of the cheap, fiery liquid.
No, nuisance wasn't the word. It was a... Hell, what was the word? Something like... like...
He took another hard swallow from the bottle.
Anachronism?
No, that wasn't right either. He clawed the fingers of his free hand through his graying hair, his head lolling from side to side, as he tried to gather his thoughts for the right sort of ism.
Maybe another swig would help? He took one.
"Altruism?" he spat out thickly.
"Schism... prism... botulism?" he sniggered. "Hinduism... pessimism?" he broke into full-blown laughter. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he backed up to the wall for support.
"Masochism... X-ray vision?"
Miller became aware of a warm wetness at his crotch. He lowered his eyes and watched as the dark patch on his trousers grew larger.
"Bastard!" he moaned, pointing an accusatory finger at the far corner of the room. "You did that! You made me do it!" Sobbing gently, he barely managed to complete the four steps to the sofa. "I hate you!" he mumbled before collapsing into a black, dreamless sleep.
YOU ARE READING
The Cold Spot
HorrorJohn "Johnny Boy" Miller, wonders why one corner of his living room is so cold. When he finds out, he wishes he had just left things alone.
