The Cold Spot

Part 3

That evening Miller poured himself a large scotch and stared at the far corner of the living room. In spite of the drink, he still felt a little nervous. He picked up the temperature gauge and studied it for a moment. It was shaped like a little walkie-talkie, with a digital readout on the front and a long, metal probe on top.

Up until that point, there had been an irritating question at the back of his mind. What if this little machine told him something he didn't want to know? What then?

"Ah, to hell with it." He knocked the drink back in one large gulp and began the tour of the house.

He started upstairs with the master bedroom. He switched on the gauge and watched the digital readout fluctuate for a moment before it finally settled on eighteen degrees Celsius.

Nothing wrong with that, he thought. If anything, it was a little too warm for a bedroom. But then there's nothing up here is there? No cold spot like in the living room. At that moment, he'd realised just how spooked out he had really been by it. After all, most other people probably would have just confined their search to the area of discomfort. Don't be stupid! He turned away from the bedroom clutter and stood on the landing.

Twenty-one point one degrees Celsius.

Warmer. But then he'd had the loft insulated a couple of years before. Or rather Shirley had. Bloody cow! Glad to see the back of her, he grinned inwardly. I'll bet that idiot, Gilmore, isn't laughing now. Him with his gold Amex card and flash BMW. I'll bet she's bled him dry by now.

"Bled him bloody well dry!" The sound of his own voice shocked him; even though he now lived alone the house had seemed unusually quiet. There was always some sort of background noise, even if it was only the sounds of passing traffic and foxes screwing around outside. He put it out of his mind. The rest of the upper floor checked out at a steady, twenty-one C.

The Kitchen. Stale smells and greasy surfaces. A pile of dirty dishes, cutlery and used take away containers were stacked in the sink.

I'll deal with it tomorrow, Miller promised himself. He held out the gauge and read the figures.

Twenty point eight degrees Celsius.

Shirley would never have put off doing the dishes. He grimaced at the memory. It had been quite pleasant at first, having a trophy wife who was so dutiful. That was before he discovered there was a difference between someone merely being house-proud and someone being obsessive. God, she'd driven him mad.

Not anymore, he smiled as he stepped into the hallway.

Nineteen-point seven degrees Celsius.

A naked bulb hung from the ceiling and lit the hallway with a harsh intensity. Miller had always hated the yellow, flower patterned wallpaper.

Maybe I'll change it sometime.

He took his time as he walked to the living room, not wanting to get there any sooner than he had to. The icy coldness hit him the second he entered the room and Miller shifted his focus to the readout on the gauge.

Fourteen-point one degrees Celsius.

A little cool but nothing to worry about. Probably just need to bleed the radiator.

He slowly approached the far corner and felt the chill move around him.

Just an air current, that's what Mike would say.

He stretched his arm up and held the gauge a foot above his head.

Twelve point two degrees Celsius.

That can't be right. There must be something wrong with this bloody machine.

He pushed the probe an inch higher.

Seven-point three degrees Celsius.

Another inch.

Two-point six degrees Celsius.

"HOLY SHIT!"

Miller stumbled backward, lost his footing and cracked his head on the corner of the coffee table. His vision blurred before he was plunged into unconsciousness.