The Cold Spot

Part 5

The world always seemed so much brighter after a few drinks. By the time Miller collapsed into the passageway of his house at ten past midnight, things seemed very bright indeed. He picked himself up, stomped into the living room and pulled a fresh bottle of scotch from the cabinet. He flopped into an armchair, broke the bottle's seal and drank deep. When he finally lowered the bottle he stared hard into the far corner of the room. An idea came to mind as he tried to focus at the point just below the ceiling. He pulled himself out of the chair and crawled over to the drawer under the T.V. unit. He hadn't used the old, soldering iron in years but it was still in there.

"Okay," he said to the corner of the room. "Let's see just how right Mike is shall we?"

He plugged the soldering iron into the socket closest to the corner and gulped down more of the drink while he waited for it to warm up.

"Right, let's sort this thing out once and for all," he slurred.

He took another reassuring gulp, slammed the bottle down on the coffee table and picked up the temperature gauge and soldering iron. He pushed the hot metal into the cold spot and held it there for ten seconds. He raised the gauge to the same position and switched it on.

Two point four degrees Celsius.

Then the figures blurred and descended.

One-point nine.

Zero-point six.

"Oh, wait till Mike hears about this!"

Miller touched the end of the iron against his arm.

"Cold. The damned thing's stone cold!"

He kept the iron pressed against the inside of his forearm and felt the heat slowly build up again. He looked up and peered deep into where the invisible cold spot hung.

There was something there. A Speck of something. A Dark, miniscule dot on the very edge of visibility. He reached up for it but his fingers could neither grasp nor disturb it. The soldering iron was hot again and Miller held the tip as close to the speck as he could judge. He stared at the figures on the gauge again.

Minus one point four degrees Celsius.

Minus four-point six.

Minus seven point two.

"What the hell?"

Then something caught his eye. While he had been looking at the readout screen the speck had disappeared. In its place, there was something long and thin like a needle. The tips at each end were so impossibly thin that the eye couldn't tell where the shape started or finished.

Miller stepped back, not taking his eyes away from the strange object.

"So much for the science lesson, bloody Mike Gale!" He picked the bottle up from the table and took another large swallow. "I'll show you where the bastard heat goes."

He returned the scotch to the coffee table, then half stumbled, half ran out of the living room. Once in the hallway, he lurched towards the broom cupboard under the stairs. He pulled out the vacuum cleaner and several tins of paint before he found what he'd wanted, then he tottered back to the living room with his prize clutched under his arm.

"Let's see what you make of this."

He plugged in the electric, bar-heater and angled it up towards the needle. There was an unpleasant burning smell as the layers of dust smouldered on the twin, orange bars and the needle danced and shimmered in the air above.

Miller perched himself on the arm of the sofa and grabbed the whisky bottle from the coffee table as he watched the needle start to grow. It grew steadily longer until it finally stretched from the ceiling to the heater. The orange bars dulled then turned grey, but Miller knew that the power supply was still feeding them.

"Where the hell's all the heat going, Mike? Inside that bloody thing, that's where!"

The living room lights dimmed as the needle grew thicker until it had become a thick, black bar which stretched from floor to ceiling. There was something inside it. It was impossible to tell what but it seemed to twist and flicker.

The lights faded until the room was almost in total darkness.

"What the fuck?"

The living room became flat and colourless as his eyes adapted to the feeble light of the street lamps outside. He squinted at the bar. There was something in there... there really was.

Miller reached a tentative hand out to touch it. In that instant, with a shock worse than any pain, his entire right arm went numb. He yanked it back with his left hand and it caught the wall with a glancing blow, smashing it into fragments like some cheap ceramic ornament.

Suddenly, horribly sober, Miller looked down at the painless, sharp stump of his right arm. A whirring, whining sound fluttered in his throat as he backed up towards the door.

From the corner, there was a sound like the tearing of a heavy curtain. As he watched the emerging figure, Miller, at last, realised that for some things there are no proper words.

THE END