Free The Strange Quilter by Carl Quiltman Page A

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, his 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