The Strange Quilter
By Carl Quiltman
© copyright 2013 Carl Quiltman
More stories by Carl Quiltman
Table Of Contents
Chapter 1: The Phone Call
Chapter 2: Nell's House
Chapter 3: Dreamland
Chapter 4: Further Preparation
Chapter 5: Quilting Revelation
Chapter 1: The Phone Call
No one would have ever guessed how Friday's friendship group meeting would change all of our lives forever. No one could have foreseen the implications that night would bring. It was our custom to meet every Friday afternoon at Nell's Threads, a local fabric and sewing supplies store. We would meet around a couple of large folding tables and work on our projects. Sometimes we worked on a group project, other times we worked on our personal projects. More often than not, it was a mixture of the two.
The phone call came Thursday night. Ken, my husband, had already gone to bed. I couldn't sleep. Don't ask me why. It was just one of those nights. Thoughts kept swimming around in my head and they wouldn't stop. The more I tried not to think, the faster and harder the thoughts would come. That's how insomnia works. If someone asked you NOT to think about elephants, that would be all you'd think about. At some point in the night, I finally resolved that sleep was going to allude me, and with that, I began to drift off...
… then the phone rang. The ringtone sounded like a stick of dynamite had exploded in my ear. I jumped out of the overstuffed chair in our multi-themed living room, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might escape my chest and run away. I grabbed the receiver from the landline phone on the end table. I thought it was three in the morning and wondered who could be calling us this late? But, it only felt that late to me. It was actually only eleven at night. “Hello. Barbara Smith speaking,” I said groggily. For what seemed forever, there was silence on the other end. Dead silence, yet I knew someone was there. “Hello?” I repeated.
“It's me... Nell.”
At first I frowned in bewilderment. Nell's voice sounded so thin and weak. I even entertained the thought she might be sacred. My sleepy brain immediately thought the worst. I imagined Nell was being chased through her house by a murderer, a thieving murderer, ready to stab her multiple times and leave her gasping in a pool of blood. I shook the image from my head and asked, “What's up? You sound funny.” Again, there was a long pause.
“I had to talk to someone. You're the most broad-minded of the bunch. I thought you'd understand, that you'd believe me...”
Understand? Believe? My curiosity was tweaked. I felt as if I were falling down a dark hole, and I didn't know if there was any bottom to it. Maybe I would fall forever. I mentally reached out for something to hold onto. I stopped my mental fall and found a way back into the conversation. “Is this about the friendship group? Are we still meeting tomorrow?”
There was a laugh from Nell. A very quiet laugh. A whisper of a laugh. Barely a laugh at all, but it was significant. It meant something. It meant she was scared and nervous and hesitant to tell me what was on her mind. She burned with something to say, but she was too frightened and worried to say it, thinking I might react to her badly. What the hell could it be? Nell, after a pause to gather her wits once more, said, “The friendship group is still on.”
“So. Is it about the friendship group, or is it about something else? Are we playing a guessing game here?” I didn't mean to sound insensitive. I could tell Nell was struggling, so when I spoke, I injected a little frivolity into my voice. Something odd was going on inside Nell's mind, something she felt was extraordinary, and she saw me as the only person she could confide in.
I pondered - within the conversational gap caused by her urgent reluctance - where Nell got the idea I was open minded? Maybe she was linking me to my husband's interest in all things bizarre. Ken would listen to that popular all night radio show, Coast to Coast, into the wee morning hours if the guests or callers were particularly interesting. The show's host mainly discussed these esoteric topics: ghosts, aliens, shadow people, extrasensory perception, cryptozoology, remote viewing, flying saucers, the end of the world - any weird subject that lacked a solid level of credibility. But then, all things invisible require some degree of faith. Does a belief in an invisible God mean you're open minded? In a way, it does.
“No. It isn't a guessing game. I'm frightened. I don't know where to turn,” Nell said, a quiver in her voice that suggested tears were about to fall. She tugged at my heart strings, sounding so small and pathetic. I always thought of her as the ambitious and competent business owner. Now, I listened to her fearful, weak voice. It was disturbing to me. I don't want to think of her this way – cringing in fear. “I'm trying to build up my courage. This is so hard for me to talk about. You'll think I'm nuts.”
Ken walked into the living room dressed in plain white pajamas. He was rubbing his eyes, as if trying to get them to work. My husband had only recently retired, so whatever hour of the day it was took on less significance for him. No longer did he worry about getting enough sleep so he could rise at the crack of dawn, refreshed and ready for work. “Is something wrong?” Ken asked.
I nodded at Ken, then said to Nell, “My husband just walked into the room. - Just a second.” I covered the receiver with my hand, turned to Ken and said, “It's Nell. Something's wrong.”
“Is she okay?”
“I don't know yet.” I removed my hand from the receiver and said to Nell, “Are you in any danger?” Again, the silence weighed a thousand pounds, filling the air in living room, as both Ken and I waited for a reply that was very slow in coming. I went over to the end table and switched on the speakerphone. I wanted Ken to hear.
“I'm sorry. I don't mean to be a bother.... but I've got to go. The quilter is trying to open the door. It must have hands...” And, with a click, the phone started to buzz from the broken connection. I put the receiver back on the phone cradle and stared blankly at Ken. He stared blankly back at me. Both of us were puzzled and concerned.
“Did you catch everything she said?” I asked Ken.
“I think so, but I don't get what she met.” He sat down on the couch with a soft squish from the phony leather cushion.
“She said a quilter was trying to open the door and it must have hands,” I said, and shook my head from side to side in perplexity. “Was that supposed to mean she's in danger?”
Ken scratched his enlarging belly through his pajama top. “You know I like mysteries... everything from gumshoe detective stories to UFO reports. Stuff that makes me curious. That phone call makes me curious.” He tapped his fingers annoyingly on top of the end table. This was one of his fidgeting behaviors he practiced when he couldn't make a decision. I'll try and help him along.
I said, “I'm guessing that we're on the same page here. Should we call the cops? What do you think we ought to do?”
Ken suddenly looked sure of himself, and said, “We go over to Nell's house and check it out for ourselves.”
“What? We're going to knock on Nell's door in the middle of the night?” This didn't sound like a good plan to me at all, but Ken had already left the couch to go get dressed. I stood in the middle of the living room and wondered if we were losing our minds. Do I go along with this craziness? If I don't, and Nell IS in some sort of trouble – whatever that might be – then I'd kick myself for the rest of my life. But the idea of calling the police would be stupid. What exactly would we report? A quilter that grew some hands was opening a door? That's insane.
Ken entered the living room, dressed in his normal blue jeans and t-shirt, wearing a thickly padded ski jacket. He held in his hand my ski jacket. “It's cold outside.” He handed it to me, and as he did so, h
is expression changed to doubt. “You do know where she lives, right? I just assumed.”
“You assumed correctly. Though I do think this is a bit crazy.”
“It's the right thing to do. We'll go and check out the situation.”
We walked outside into the chilly night and I locked the front door. The air bit our lungs. Even in this Southern California suburban bedroom community, it gets cold. But it doesn't get this cold. Not in all my years of living here do I remember it feeling this cold ever. The lawn was frozen. Billows of foggy condensation left our nostrils as we walked to the garage. Ken bent down and opened the garage door. We never bothered to install an automatic garage door opener. It just wasn't that hard to open it manually. Until now. Ken wasn't wearing gloves, and I could tell he had difficulty moving his frozen fingers.
The night began to have a strange odor to it, the smell of burning electrical circuits wafted into our frozen olfactory receptors. This odor caused us to look all around for signs of a fire. We looked at our house, at our neighbor's house - we looked all about - but saw nothing. This strange smell signaled a sense of approaching danger - a warning - that continued to intensify as we seated ourselves in our old Honda Civic.
I chose to drive since I knew where she lived, rather than constantly spouting out directions to Ken. It was a very still hour of the night. Not many cars were on the road. Most people were tucked warmly away in bed, resting up for the coming workday.
This night felt inexplicably strange to me. I drove through the suburban streets to the boulevard, questioning in my mind if this was the right thing to do. And what exactly were we going to do? Knock on the door in the dead of night and scare Nell to death – give her a heart attack instead of helping her?
What would we find at Nell's home? Would we discover who or what a quilter, with or without hands, was all about? I would assume most quilters owned a pair of hands... and most quilters were not referred to as an 'it'.
Chapter 2: Nell's House
It was after midnight. It seemed the only drivers on the road, other than us, were police officers or drunks. I had to steer clear of more than a few drunk drivers that found it difficult to stay in their own lane.
The car's heater was turned up all the way. The heat felt wonderful, but underneath it all, that strange smell of burning electronics tinted the warm air. It seemed to be everywhere we drove. And along with that smell came a sense of danger, an angst that entered us and flowed in our veins.
“We'll play it by ear. We won't decide what to do until we get there and check it out,” Ken said. I imagine he was beginning to feel nervous about disturbing someone at this late hour. Before this night was over, we might be the ones that ended up inside a jail cell. We do look suspicious. Anyone wandering around at this hour of the night looked suspicious What possible reason was there for anyone to roam the streets after midnight on a cold night like this? Was it to rescue a friend from a gender neutral quilter - a quilter with or without hands?
“Definitely. We won't even leave the car until we're absolutely certain Nell's in trouble.” If I remember right, we should be getting close to her house. I haven't been to Nell's house often enough to know the way by heart. I normally only see her at the shop on friendship group night, so I have to think hard which streets to turn down. For some reason, everything looks different tonight. It wasn't just the darkness that made everything look strange to me. I've been to Nell's house at night before. It's something else that has settled over the town. A feeling. A strangeness. An aura of danger, as if all the inanimate objects would suddenly come to life, filled with anger, ready to attack any human being they might come across.
It isn't rational to be sacred, but I am. But why am I scared? Nothing I've seen tonight has threatened me. “How are you feeling?” I asked Ken. I turned to give him a quick glance, and saw only the back of his gray haired head, as he watched the houses glide by.
“I'm okay. In fact, to me, it's kind of exciting and mysterious,” he said, facing the passenger window. He then asked, “Are we close to Nell's yet?”
“It's right around here somewhere,” I said, going down one block and up the other.
“You're lost. Right?”
“Not lost. I'm just having a little mental glitch.” Right at that moment, I slammed on the brakes to keep from killing a cat that dashed in front of the car. Both of us jerked forward. Despite the seat belts, our heads came close to knocking against the dashboard, or, in my case, the steering wheel. I pulled over to the curb. We were in a block of suburban housing built in the mid fifties. The homes actually had substantially sized front and back yards.
I was shaking. I opened the door and got out. I may have hit the cat, though I didn't hear or feel a thump. I looked for signs of blood on the street.
The air was frigid. It felt more like we were living in Alaska than Southern California. And that smell, that smell of fried electrical circuits, it still permeated the atmosphere around us. A dead black cat was spread flat in a pool of dark blood near the rear of the Honda, about five feet from the curb. I HAD hit the cat. I felt terrible. I imagined a young child, a little girl, whose beloved kitty I had just pulverized into a bloody meat and fur patty. I felt this trip to check on Nell's safety had already gone sour.
From within the Honda, Ken said loudly, “Did you hit it?”
“Yes, I hit it. Damn it.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What can I do? I'm leaving it.” I had no way to clean up the bloody mess. It was icy cold and the time was slipping away into the wee hours of Friday morning. We still haven't found Nell's house. Geez. I'm tired. What am I doing out here? I looked up ahead and noticed that this street seemed familiar. I remembered it. And I remembered there was a street that branched off this one, just a little ways ahead. It's a cul-de-sac. That's where Nell lives, right near where the street dead ends. I got back inside the Honda and shut the door.
“Are we going home?” Ken asked.
“No. I know where I am now, and I know where Nell lives. We're almost there.” I put the Honda in drive and drove to the next side street and turned right. This was the cul-de-sac. And there was Nell's house to the right of us, near the street's abrupt end. I pulled up next to the curb in front of her house and parked. “We must be nuts. What did we expect to find?” I said, and looked at Nell's house - dark and quiet, like every other house on this block. I felt like a criminal - a stalker - as we sat in the car. I was feeling paranoid, waiting for a patrol car to pull up alongside us and the officers to jump out with flashlights pointing at our faces, asking us hard questions.
“Nothing looks abnormal. We'll sit and observe the situation for awhile, like detectives on a stakeout,” Ken said.
You're a little nuts. You know that, right?” I said, my head filled with doubts about this 'stakeout'. The freezing temperature outside worked its way through the glass and metal of the car. We were exhaling clouds of vapor that Ken wiped from the windows with some tissues. A cop might drive by and suspect us of being passionate teenagers, heavy breathing adolescents fogging up the windows. But then, on closer inspection, the officer would discover two slightly crazed retired folks - much more dangerous than mere teenagers.
“Can we turn on the radio and listen to Coast to Coast?” Ken asked, as he shivered in his seat. I turned the key so that the car's accessories would work. Ken quickly found the station on the radio. He immediately took interest in tonight's subject of inter-dimensional visitors.
It seemed to me the burnt electronic smell was heavier and more intense on this street than anywhere else we'd been tonight. It hung in the cold air like a living presence. The odor was disturbing to me on a deep, primal level of fear. It just wasn't right. I was paranoid about it, wondering if some terrorists might be poisoning the atmosphere. Soon, we would all drop dead from some kind of WMD poison gas. How would we escape? Where would we run to? “Have we finished with this stakeout gig? The street's quiet. We're the only ones making any noi
se. Let's go home and get warm.”
A light went on inside Nell's home. I turned the volume down on the radio and whispered, “Shush. Listen...” The light came from the living room. The large front window's drapes were drawn, but the glow from the light shown through. I now heard a very subtle series of noises. It was an intermittent sound. A metallic clicking noise that originated near Nell's house. It might even have come from inside her house.
“Are you going to knock on her door?” Ken asked. I could tell he was increasingly nervous about being here. As a detective, he caved quickly when some action finally happened.
“And scare Nell into a heart attack? She probably just got up to go to the bathroom. I'm beginning to creep myself out being here.”
“Yeah, we are acting creepy.”
Nell's house went dim. This little incident was a positive indicator that she was okay. She merely got up in the middle of the night for a glass of water, or to use the bathroom, and went back to bed. Nothing unusual. Nothing odd. The only strange thing was her phone call. Maybe she just had a few drinks and got a little weird. It happens. She's a widow and has lived alone for quite some time. I'm not implying she has any mental problems, or that she's socially inept. She's a successful business woman. She just had a drink or two and got a little high. That's not strange. Not like Ken and I, freezing our asses off in the middle of the night, parked in front of her house, listening to the Coast to Coast radio show discussing inter-dimensional visitors.
A white flash! A light as brilliant as the noonday sun, shining from horizon to horizon, lit the night sky. It lasted less than a second. Blink, and you would have missed it. What was it? I rubbed my eyes, pulled some tissues from my pocket, and wiped the moist haze from the front windshield. I saw nothing unusual outside. All was normal - so what was that? “Did you see that?” I asked Ken.
“What?”
“That light! That super bright light! For a split second, it turned night into day.” My heart wanted to burst from my chest. I was shaking now, but not from the freezing cold that had sunk into the marrow of my bones.
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