It's a late summer evening in the Valentine section of Kansas City. I'm walking to the apartment I lived in back then, admiring the old, large homes in this part of town. Some of them were turned into apartments in the 60's, and now a lot of younger people are moving in, gentrifying the neighborhood; turning these large beautiful homes back into single family dwellings. One in particular I've always admired is just a block from my apartment. It sits on a corner, with a wrought iron fence about 5 feet tall surrounding the yard. A large, 2 story home that looks like it's been well cared for over the years and probably not divided into apartments. I have no idea what the architecture is, but it's a great looking house.

As I get a little closer, I see a woman in the front yard, next to the house. She's at one of the windows. There's another woman in the house, leaning out the window. At first I think they're just talking. Then I realize, the woman in the house is crawling out of the window, the woman outside is helping her. What the hell? Looking around, I see no signs of a fire, so why is she crawling out the window? Wouldn't it be easier to use the door as an exit? I'm about even with them now, from the sidewalk I yell at them, «Is everything ok? Do you need some help?»

«Yes. I think so.» says the woman in the yard. I walk through the gate, up to the window. The woman in the yard appears to be in her early to mid thirties, the woman in the window is elderly, and quite frail.

«I'm Dena. I live across the street. This is Mrs. Whitworth.» says the younger woman.

«I'm Yip. What's the problem?»

Dena: I'm trying to help Mrs. Whitworth get out.

Yip: I see that. Is there something wrong with the door?

Mrs. Whitworth: They're shining the lights again!

She's sitting on the window sill now, one leg out, one in the house. I see the window screen on the ground beside us. Dena is holding her by the hip, trying to balance her.

Dena, somewhat under her breath: She's afraid. She thinks the people next door are responsible for some sort of lights she sees in the house.

Mrs. W.: Please, can you help me young man? The lights are very troubling. They're all over the house. They follow me!

The sun is going down, it's beginning to get dark. I figure I'd better help the old lady before she falls. She's so tiny, she can't weigh more than 90 pounds. I help her to the ground. She's wearing a lightweight robe and fluffy house shoes.

I look at Dena, «Lights?»

Mrs. W.: Yes! They're all different colors and they follow me in the house. I think he's doing it. She points to the house next door.

Dena: That's Dr. Patel's house. He moved in about 6 months ago. He's hardly ever at home, but Mrs. Whitworth thinks he has some sort of 'power'.

Mrs. W.: Oh, I'm sure it's him. He moved in and the lights started following me.

Dena glances at me and rolls her eyes a bit. Ok, I figure the old lady either off her meds, or on something that is probably not prescribed by a doctor. It's starting to get a little chilly and Mrs. Whitworth is no doubt getting cold in this light robe she's wearing.

Y: Maybe we should get you back inside.

Mrs. W.: But the front door's locked.

Oh great. She's crawled out the window to escape 'lights' that apparently only she can see, and has locked herself out.

I check the front door. Sure enough, it's locked. «Ok, I'll climb back in the window and open the front door.»
Mrs. W.: Be careful of the lights!

I boost myself up through the open window into a large room. It's fairly dark in the house, but I can see a baby grand piano on the other side of the room, and beautiful furniture. The old gal is definitely not hurting for money. I carefully make my way to where I think the front door would be, into a large entrance hall with a beautiful Tara-like staircase. I find a light switch. A crystal chandelier lights the entryway. I open the front door and Dena and Mrs. Whitworth come in.

Mrs. W.: Thank you, young man, thank you.

Y: You have a beautiful home Mrs. Whitworth, but I don't see any lights.

Mrs. W.: Oh, they're gone now. They'll be back though. I'm sure of it.

Dena: She wants to call Emmaline, the housekeeper.

Mrs. W.: Yes. Emmaline will know what to do. Would you call her for me? Her number's in that book.

She points to a little table on the staircase landing. I thumb through the book to the «E» section. There, written in an old lady scrawl is Emmaline's number. I dial.

«Hello?»

Y: Hello, is this Emmaline?

E.: Yes.

Y: Emmaline, my name is Yip. I'm over here at Mrs. Whitworth's house.

E.: Oh, Lord.

Y: Everything's ok, but Mrs. Whitworth asked me to call you. Um, I think she's a little confused.

E.: Confused?! Ha!! She rounded that corner a long time ago! She seein' them lights again?

Y: Yes. She says they follow her.

E.: Uh huh. Last week they was all orange. Now they different colors. She harmless, just more full of shit than a Christmas goose! She go for the gun yet?

Y: GUN?!?

E.: Oh, it don't work. Her husband collect war crap. It's over by the fireplace. Not loaded, I checked. But she wave it around sometimes. She think it scare the lights. Don't worry, she don't mean no harm, 'cept to the lights, ya know. I'll come over and fix her some hot cocoa. She like that. Can you stay till I get there

Y: Yes. I'll be here. Thank you, Emmaline.

E.: Oh, you welcome. Tell her I be right over.

Mrs. Whitworth is sitting in the staircase, holding Dena's hand. «Emmaline is on her way. She said she'd make some cocoa.»

Mrs. W.: Oh good! She makes the best cocoa! Not that instant stuff. She makes the real thing.

A few minutes later I go outside to replace the window screen as a car pulls in the drive. A rather plump black woman gets out.

«Emmaline?»

«Good evening! You Yip? Don't worry about Miz Whitworth. She harmless. Just bat-shit crazy since her husband die. This happen all the time. I fix her some cocoa and she be fine.»

I walk back to my dark apartment. As I enter, a car turns the corner shining headlights on the living room wall. I wonder how old I'll be when my own Dr. Patel starts sending lights to me.

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