Just over two years ago during the first week of August, I was enjoying some time alone as my family was visiting with the in-laws. A late night person, I usually stay up even later when they are away, watching the 24 hour soccer channel or surfing the internet. I’d had a couple of glasses of wine (or maybe three), and I headed upstairs for bed around 1:30 am. As I was about to make the left turn to the bedroom, something flew out of a hallway closet into the bedroom and then back out down the length of the hallway.
A BAT IN THE HOUSE.
I panicked. And then I made my first error, running into bed pulling the covers over my head and making sure I had no skin exposed. My first instinct was to avoid being bitten.
Did I think the bat wasn’t going to find me, or bite me, if I was hiding? What the hell was I going to do now? It was hot, and it was getting even hotter tucked tightly under a sheet and blanket. I was sweating, my face pressed into the mattress. I heard the bat come through the bedroom again, brushing against a wall, and I had a sensation, I think imagined, that the bat dive-bombed my makeshift installation.
I wasn’t loving my options. And I realized my glasses were downstairs. I needed them. I knew I had to re-position myself, but how? I decided I had to get downstairs, but what if the bat whizzed towards me while in the narrow confines of the stairwell? I tried to calm my nerves and took a few peeks from under the covers to test out if the coast might be clear. I manned up and tip-toed out of the bedroom and down the steps. I quickly retrieved my glasses and bolstered my defense by grabbing a couple of tennis rackets from the basement which I stationed strategically... placing one on the kitchen counter and bringing another to the computer room to fortify me while I conducted some internet research.
[Note to self: the worst possible idea is for someone with anxiety issues while in the midst of frank panic to do a google search. It was a popular topic, producing 40,800,000 results in .43 seconds.]
DON’T use a tennis racket... Don’t kill the bat... You can build some contraptions on your house to keep bats from getting in, but you can’t do that in August because thousands of baby bats were born in your attic a few weeks ago and you’ll be trapping them inside the house... The bat wants out so if you open some sliders and windows the bat may flee, but there’s a risk that instead bats outside will “hear†your bat and help themselves inside... Bats in the house are not uncommon, and there are entire companies devoted to bat extraction and prevention, but they still shouldn’t be flying around your house and that’s a sign a bat may be rabid... If you’ve had alcohol and/or other substances and/or possibly fallen asleep with the bat in the house, you should presume you’ve been bitten and seek immediate medical attention as untreated rabies results in death...
And my personal favorite... “Bats are your friend... critical to the bio-ecosystem, killing millions of mosquitoes.â€
It’s also not easy to focus on a computer screen and keep your head on a swivel. And sure enough, Mr. Bat went on another reconnaissance mission, through every room on the main floor, including a pass back and forth past my head in the computer room. Second note to self: the bat’s quicker than me and I couldn’t pull the trigger on grabbing the tennis racket.
By now it’s 2:30 am and I adjusted my strategy. I pulled the slider to the computer room fully open in hopes the bat would eventually fly out, and I retreated to the adjacent outside deck where I figured I could monitor activities inside from a safer vantage point. I waited and waited. Nothing. I finally fell asleep on a deck lounger for a couple of hours, waiting for dawn when I figured I’d be safe in the house again until nightfall.
With the sun up and all vampires temporarily quarantined, I returned to the internet and waited for a proper hour to phone-a-friend. My friend, a real man who would walk through a den of bats like a Bat Whisperer, and who builds houses for a living, came over in the late morning and surveyed the scene. He found a few vulnerable areas, like the upstairs closet the bat initially had flown out of, and he duct-taped around some crevices. He figured I was good to go, but I got his assurance that I could call later if there was a return-of-the-bat.
I thought there was a decent chance the bat had flown out of the house during the night, but I was going to be prepared nonetheless. I had a room reserved at Hampton Inn & Suites just in case, and as night approached I perched myself in the family room near the front door, armed with a large-head tennis racket. Waiting for my foe.
8:55 pm… flight 666 right on schedule. In he (a ‘he’ right?) comes, cruising midway between floor and ceiling, looking like a giant darth vader condor, an evil-majestic-bat-airplane making the final approach for landing. Racket handle gripped so tightly my hand was cramping but again he was too quick and erratic to pull the trigger on a swing.
That’s it! I’m outta here!
I already had my car keys, my bag packed, and I was out the door. The bat could have the damn house for all I cared. I stood in my driveway pondering my next move. Yep, time to call in the Bat Patrol. I called my buddy and explained the scene, and he at first was like, “really, you want me to come over?†And I was like, “yeah, really, I want you to come over NOW.â€
And a half-hour later, my storm troopers arrived — my buddy, and his 3 boys, ages 15, 13, and 11... the youngest wearing a fucking Batman mask. They all marched in with bare feet, scouring the house for my nemesis, looking through every nook and cranny. They couldn’t find him. Fielding progress updates from my command post in the driveway, I hysterically insisted that the mission must not fail.
Finally, I heard the screams “we got him, we got him!†Of course it had to be the bat-masked 11 year old who spotted Mr. Bat nested in a blob on a curtain in my son’s room, snatching him with a fishing net. They brought the bat outside in the net to show me because I needed proof, and they also laughed and taunted me, briefly chasing me with the-bat-in-fishing-net in hand. The bat with wings retracted was smaller than a mouse.
I was completely drained... relieved... and thankful to my friends. Still traumatized and nearly delirious from the ordeal, I kept my reservation at the Hampton that night and anticipated my family coming home the next day.
My nights of terror have become legendary for some in our town... with me as the laughingstock, affectionately greeted everywhere I went as Batman. I’ve received every Batman gift imaginable — Batman doormat, Batman key chain, Batman T-shirt, Batman bumper sticker... and spontaneous, mocking serenades of the Batman theme song intro.
And more than two years later, I still drive my family insane, especially in July and August, as I hypervigilantly check for doors left ajar, or doors left open wide too long…admonishing any careless violators.
I suffer from malignant bat phobia, and I’m not ashamed in the least.
Because raw fear — even if, or maybe especially if, that fear is irrational — trumps*** shame.
*Author’s comment/edit in September, 2026, exactly 16 years later: remember when we could use that word without even a half-second pause?