The Vampire Bat (a home-grown horror story)

There’s a horror film being re-enacted in our house right now. Every night as the sun goes down I lock myself in the far bedroom, jamming tight the windows, slamming shut the door, lying quivering in bed, listening for the slightest sound, the merest disturbance in the air. Praying. Hard. I cannot rest until dawn breaks through and the hope of the new day emerges. Then, at last, I can fling open the windows and fall into the deepest slumber. Safe at last.

It’s bat season.

I have absolutely no idea why but, every June, we get bats in the house. Funnily enough, when it first happened, I wasn’t that bothered. I’d merely open the windows, slam off the lights and wait for them to figure out the Exit and leave. But as the years have passed, my nerves have worn thin and now I am very nearly phobic. I don’t mind them outside, flitting round at dusk. But I cannot abide them in the house or – more particularly – in the bedroom.

The first one of 2007 arrived a couple of days ago. I was sitting in the living room, feet up with a large glass of Pinot Grigio, watching The Holiday (execrable film), when a large one started doing its wild circling routine. Squawked a bit and hauled in Adrian to deal with it.
Then, several hours later, in bed I woke with a sense that Something Was Wrong. Lay there, heart thudding, listening. Nothing. Checked on James – fine. Came back, turned on the light and read a bit (Gardens of the Dead – not great). Adrian, having partaken of cheese (makes him snore) was in the back guest room. Felt tired, turned off light. Lay there in the dark, wondering what was wrong. Then a low sort of ‘thrum’ and my heart sank. Sort of lost it, I’m afraid and let out an involuntary wail. Which, of course, woke up James.
‘What’s up Mum?’
‘Oh, only a silly bat. Don’t worry.’ Pause. Duck. Small scream.
‘Adrian!’
No response. Adrian sleeps like Dracula at noon.
‘DAD!!!’
‘Adrian!’
‘DAAAAAD!!’ James not remotely worried but smartly figuring his higher-pitched cry might wake his father. Frankly a stake to the heart might be a better idea.
Finally he stumbles out, looking quite like the undead, sort of takes in the situation and calmly lets the bat fly into his end of the house and shuts himself in with it.
I don’t like this cavalier attitude. I like to see things disappear. I like to know for good and certain that the trespasser (be it bat or spider or whatever) has been returned to its proper place (ie NOT in my house).
Last year it reached epic proportions. I didn’t sleep for a month. One memorable night Adrian turned the bedroom upside down and did that sort of pained male thing of throwing up his hands and saying, ‘Well, it’s not here.’
‘But it hasn’t gone. Ergo it must be here.’ Muffled from under the duvet.
‘But I can’t see it and I’ve looked everywhere. So it can't be here.’

How stupid and typically male is this? I thought back over his running commentary on everywhere he had looked and realised that the one place he hadn’t checked was - horror of horrors – the bed. I peered down the back of the (headboardless) mattress and – Oh My God – yup, there it was….all curled up all but three inches from where my head had been for the last half hour. Cue total hysteria and a severely chastised husband.

This year we were prepared. The chimneys had been blocked solid with paper. The doors were all shut as were the windows (even as the temperature soared). Yet still the puggers get in somehow.
‘Like a mist through the keyhole,’ muttered Adrian. Not helpful at all, Van Helsing.
I meanwhile, have taken to barricading myself in the far room, crucifix firmly round my neck, garlic at the windows, muttering prayers and imprecations. I jest – but only just.


PS – great responses to my blogging question – thank you all…