The black thing flew straight at her, and as she dived into her pillow, she heard it coming back again, above her bed, its shrill little cry, Trapped, trapped just like me— She grabbed at the lamp, and there were more squeaks—more wings—and the hot, still air churning above her head, frantic shadows darting and swooping, trying to find a way out—As her fingers found the light at last, she stared at the ceiling in disbelief. Bats. Fluttering, falling, fighting for dark places, furry heads and piggy eyes, webbed wings, and Bats! My God there must be a dozen of them—
