Batty
Even before our Stephen King-you-can't-make-this-up experience, the problem of bats at The Brick was nothing new. Every summer dating back to 1875 when our home was originally built as a schoolhouse for a small village in Ohio, the attic, spacious and dark, served as a perfect timeshare between Dracula, the Mummy and Jack the Ripper.
During our 15 years at The Brick -- a massive homestead bought by my grandfather and a home for several generations of Wilkins -- we learned to co-exist with flying rodents.
Make no mistake, bats are terrifying creatures. No matter how many nature documentaries portray them as gentle mosquito eaters vital to the health of the ecosystem, I can’t paint a mental picture of hell without bats nibbling on Hitler's nipples or flying out the ass of Genghis Kahn.
Our family’s tolerance for such macabre creatures often bordered on a dark respect. Because our house was located near several caverns, we lived with a surplus of bats. On warm summer nights, after reading bedtime stories to our children in their treehouse, we would watch them fly precise patterns into the attic, radar controlled, squeezing through the smallest of holes. If a bat was human, he would make perfect night-shift air traffic controller, who, on the way home, sucked blood from a random person's neck.
Once a week, more or less, we would have a bat fly into our living room, often enough to develop a game plan; I was responsible for arming myself with a tennis racket we kept on standby, and Melanie would remove the dead creature once I managed a fatal swat.
We improved our efficiency with decreasing dread until one evening, with a powerful overhead swing, I accidentally landed a bat into Melanie's lap. Normally extroverted and energized, I couldn’t get her to speak or move for hours.
From then on, out of a sense of guilt, I bravely promised full responsibility for dealing with bats.
On a late summer evening, Melanie and I rented Call of Nature, and I laughed because I found Jim Carrey's reaction to bats similar to mine.
On the afternoon before watching Ace Ventura comically face his deepest fears, my own bat horror story was unfolding in a convergence of dark prophecy.
I remember my good friend, Robin, a police dispatcher for the city of Columbus, called and started the conversation as she normally did:
I got a story for you.
Turns out, a felon police were familiar with, a tattooed gun collector with a Merle Haggard like voice, photographed in t-shirts with beer stains, called, literally crying for assistance. Word for word, this is what he screamed:
HELP ME, OH SHIT, PLEASE SOMEONE, OH SHIT, PLEASE HELP …
Robin heard the phone drop, the man run, his screams fading with the distance.
Turns out, Robin told me, he was being chased by bats.
With no small confidence, I told her that I didn't like bats either, but no way would I ever panic like that.
•
Turns out, our choice to rent the Ace Ventura movie that same evening featuring a sacred giant white bat calling out for lovers wasn't very wise.
It was after this scene bats began to appear in our living room, a dozen or so, one crawling under the door like Satan competing in a game of limbo.
Shortly before her quick departure in a blizzard of bats screaming praise to their Bat God, Melanie managed to turn the movie off, and inform me that I needed to get rid of the bats.
Tomorrow, I should check out the attic.
After spending the next few hours swinging a tennis racket like Roger Federer, opening windows and doors for exits, I managed to rid our living room of the vile pests before dreaming of a horror far worse to come.
To her credit, my wife helped design a plan of attack against the bats, up until the strategy ended with me climbing up the attic stairs alone.
Didn't we put in electronic pest control devices a few years ago?, she asked.
More like a decade or two, I said, already feeling drops of sweat running down my back.
And doesn't the frequency have to be adjusted every so often?
I audibly gulped, which she rightfully took as assent to the obvious fact it had never occurred to me to do so.
You need to get up there and change the frequency.
The plan was simple; the execution not so much: Climb up a rickety vertical ladder, lift up and over the portal to hell, a splintering wood lid, turn on the light, and walk to each end of the huge attic, careful to step only on the joists, 16 inches apart and 2 inches wide, all the while facing an army of bats of unknown numbers.
To properly equip such a quest was critical to the plan. Even though I calculated the temperature of the attic on a sunny summer day at about 120, I dressed in layers -- two pairs of jeans and sweaters, my Elmer Fudd overalls, North Face Winter gloves, a hoodie, my bike helmet, and a gas mask I once used for a photo shoot.
In my arms, I held two rackets -- one for tennis, one for racquetball, both for a war on bats.
•
Following a short prayer, joking to my wife to look up the number for the Logan County Coroner, just in case, I began my ascent, hand over hand, rung by rung, up the attic ladder. Already, I could feel sweat pooling in my steel-toed boots.
During those initial moments, I think what I remember most, and told my psychologist later, was the sound. Having slid the lid over, staring up into darkness, I can only describe it as similar to a match strike, and then another, another, another, one after the other like an orchestra tuning up for a fugue in G Minor for Beelzebub.
Reaching for the string to turn on the lone light, I climbed into the attic, balancing myself on two joists, wielding my rackets like Rambo with AK-47s.
Before the battle, I whispered down to Melanie, standing at the foot of the ladder.
Call Tim, our pastor, and have him call on the name of Jesus.
As I surveyed my surroundings, dimly lit, I was at first relieved. Not a single bat in sight. Focusing more clearly, though, I saw an entire section of the ceiling sway and pulsate. The movement spread like a wave at a major league ballpark on half-price beer night. When the first bat emerged in flight, I was horrified to realize that the ceiling was completely covered with a blanket of upside-down bats.
Imagine having a really bad acid trip with only Stephen Miller to talk you down. This is what I saw, only spread across 1,200 square feet.
Pissed off by the light, interrupted from a needed recharge for the upcoming night's orgy, waking up, splitting off in precise formation, one by one, they began to dive bomb the uninvited guest at Bat Party Central.
Even though I may have wet myself, vision greatly limited by sweat fogging my gas mask, I was determined to stay cool and pursue my stated mission -- make the necessary adjustments to the electronic pest controls.
Swinging rackets violently, I looked down for the next joist (I could only imagine my predicament after a misstep left me trapped in the attic, bombarded by bats, my leg through our kitchen ceiling).
Just after taking my first step, this is what I saw, only a regimen -- side-by-side along the entire joist, -- hissing diabolical threats of revenge.
What followed, I can literally describe as all hell breaking loose.
•
I used to love the old Galaga video game where flocks of spaceships came in endless waves, peeling off one ship at a time, in precise and calculated sweeps, angling into fight, weapons firing. It's the same way these flying creatures from the River Styx attacked me, only with an attitude.
As I took steps toward my goal, I remember hearing the whispery fluttering of wings and the voice of my mother-in-law in my head reminding me that my life insurance policy, in her humble opinion, was entirely inadequate.
About halfway to the first electronic pest control, I stepped on a bat, and the dry crickle sound of tiny bones crunching was what finally freaked me out.
HELP ME, OH SHIT, PLEASE SOMEONE, OH SHIT, SOMEONE PLEASE HELP …
I had no choice but to abandon my plan and admit defeat.
Escaping quickly on attic joists is like running hurdles, only by striding on the top of each one. With bats following me like a Looney Tunes swarm of bees, I fought against passing out in the stifling heat and terror, only to be discovered, final gaze somewhere between hysteria and psychosis, by my loving family.
When I reached the portal, I chose leap over climb down. With a slightly twisted ankle and permanently damaged psyche, I called out for Melanie, or maybe Mommy, probably both.
My wife lovingly and tenderly removed my gas mask and hugged me until I stopped fear drooling.
•
Believed recovered, I phoned Terminator Pest Control and left a message:
HELP ME, OH SHIT, PLEASE SOMEONE, OH SHIT, SOMEONE PLEASE HELP …
The dispatcher returned my call, promising to send someone right away, and didn't even try to stifle her laughter.
Frank, rodent control technician, arrived a short time later to take a look in our attic.
Lying in the fetal position on our front porch swing, I listened to Frank's reports. With a look somewhere between sympathy and bemusement, he lit a cigarette.
Want to know a little know fact about bats?, he asked. Before I could respond, he took a deep drag and continued.
Turns out, late every summer all the bats in a village congregate into one space for a massive party. More of an orgy really, if you want to know the truth. Look at it as a way for them to let off steam before six months of hibernation.
Turns out, he said exhaling smoke, your attic was chosen.
•
The bill for installing new eaves to seal our attic from the entry of bats cost us half our life savings.
Worth every penny, Melanie and I agreed.