The ground trembled, then a stale charcoal scent flushed through the cavern’s narrow confines. Along the corridor’s eastern side, a circular section of granite cracked and sizzled, as through igniting from the inside. The rock soon dissolved into a gaping hole. Skittering on a ring of caterpillar legs, a mass of lava-and-ash plastic rushed through the opening. Captain James T. Kirk’s only exit from the cavern was sealed. This was Star Trek, my favorite TV series, with a fresh life and death struggle every week and always compounded by a ridiculous looking monster. I thrilled to it.

Patricia, my wife of some few months now, lay on the Goodwill sofa, her head supported by the only two pillows in the house. A patch-and-wash blanket covered her legs. As for myself, I had stolen one of the mismatched dining chairs from the kitchen. This one was torn and didn’t sit all that comfortable, but the good one was serving as a stepladder in the bedroom where I had thought a spot of paint was showing on the ceiling. It turned out to be nothing more than a water stain that had seeped through from the ground floor apartment. I was considering what the water bill would run me if I paid Johnny, the house’s main level resident, to leave a faucet on overnight so as to finish the job.

On the TV, Kirk had pulled out his phaser and set it on stun; intelligent aliens were a Trek rule-of-thumb. Not to be killed unless proven malevolent. From a place where the subterranean passage narrowed into a rectangular corridor that corkscrewed into distant shadows came Lieutenant Spock, ship’s science officer. In an effort to join his Captain, the half-Vulcan was sneaking around to the creature’s left when something black and quick, darting head high, zipped past the open doorway that cut into the hall on my left. It had come from our bedroom and was heading for the kitchen.

“What the devil…” I had barely glimpsed the thing out of the corner of my eye and had recognized it only as something that didn’t belong in our house. I went to the doorway, peered around the corner, then nearly busted my bottom when I ducked an ink-eyed bat that lashed out of the kitchen and winged an arrow shot for my face. Still, my dodge was successful; the unwelcome beast flapped over my head without touching me – if it had, I think maybe I would have died then and there.

At any rate, I got my wits about me and turned just as the airborne mammal looped into the living room. I watched it flutter circles over the sofa, searching, I think for a place to land. And meanwhile, my dear wife was scared sheet white. She lay on the sofa, her head buried beneath the blanket, her eyes peering through a mummy wrap of wool. What to do? How to face such a monster? To a man noted for his quick thinking, these seemed enormously difficult questions. But a thought was forming: if I could get my hands on that blanket, I could flip it out like a parachute and trap the bat inside the fold. It seemed a simple solution to a complex problem. There was, however, one hang-up – Tish wasn’t about to turn loose of her protection.

With absolute assurance, I tell you that a scared woman has the grip of a pit bull. I stood with one hand gripping the blanket and the other swatting at a winged rat that acted as though my hair was nest material. I made no progress against either. But I kept trying, purposing to trap the flying party-crasher even if I had to leave Tish rolled up in the blanket with it.

Such bold resolutions need be tempered by common sense. When the bat suddenly hooked a claw into my shirtsleeve, screeched and fluttered, and nearly caused me to dislocate my wrist, my determination vanished. By time I had shaken him loose, I had already turned half circle and was bolting for the door. If that little bugged eyed monster wanted our living room who was I to deny him squatters rights.

Tish hitched a ride on my shirttail and came out right behind me; she wasn’t about to stay in there alone with Mighty Mouse.

Slam…Bam. I pulled the door shut. Now I had time to think and figure out how to handle this deal. Tish was leaning against the far wall, staring at me, a curious humor in her now safe eyes. She held out a corner of the blanket, but I shook my head. It was too little too late.

Turning, I opened a crack in the doorway. The bat had landed. It hung head down from the upper fold of the curtain – a dwarf opossum on whitewashed rafters. Frightening while flying, those things aren’t so large when their wings are in. Grinning, I eased the door shut, and then went into the kitchen for the broom.

They say bats are blind, but I don’t believe it. I stood in there with the little sucker; it hanging on tiny clawed fingers from the curtain, and me pretending to be a man. If the bugger wasn’t looking at me, it was looking through me. I drew back ready to swat with the head of the broom. Then the beast had the gumption to bare his teeth, tense his wings, rear back his rat head, and hiss like a snake. I backed off, closed the door snugly behind myself, and avoided Tish’s eyes. Real men use their brains. I needed a better mousetrap.

Earlier that day, I had watched Johnny and his visiting cousin shoot BBs out in the side yard. I climbed the basement stairs and knocked on the upper door. The cousin was gone but the air rifle was still there. Shortly thereafter, the bat was not.

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About The Author:

rmharrington, Christian author.

Read about, Why Babies Cry At Night (http://jobshopesolutions.com/index.php?page=article&article_id=21420)

or

A God Box, a Collection of Christian Growth (http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/2697101/a_god_box_a_collection_of_christian.html?cat=34).

Thanks.