Nora shoved more wood into the already roaring fire, sparks shooting across the floor, and she cried out as they singed her. Jackson had tried to hold her back, but she wouldn’t have it and now he was bleeding and too heartbroken to stop her. He stood resigned as she faced the fire, the heat burning her tears dry as soon as they leaked from her eyes.
She started to mumble about making it burn, her voice creaking weirdly, when the door pounded and both of them jumped. The pounding got worse, shaking the door in its frame and rattling the walls.
“Jackson! We’re coming in!”
A momentary silence stilled them, the door crashed open, and men poured into the room.
There were curses and arms raised to shield faces from the heat. There were looks of shock, confusion and pity. The man who came in first pointed to the two children huddled in the far corner. Others rushed to them, bundling them up and spiriting them outside.
Jackson just stood there, tears welling up in his hollow eyes and Nora screamed, thrashing as the men took hold of her arms and legs and dragged her out. Jackson followed silently, which left only two people in the room. The big man who had kicked the door in, and me.
“Are you okay?” he held a hand out for me and I took it, standing up from the spot I had been laying in since Jackson threw me down. My nose was still bleeding.
The man took my chin in his hand, turning my head to the side.
“I’ve seen worse, but it’ll need to be reset. Did Jackson give you that after you called?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak without crying. He put an arm around my shoulders and we walked outside. The cold air wrapped around me and was like breathing for the first time. Snow was falling in lazy and fat flakes, the blue lights from the cars flashing, turning everything white to blue and the shadows to pitch black. A yellow glow came from the roof and I looked up to see flames licking out of the chimney, making the whole scene twist into a nightmare. My head began to spin and I threw up.
This is the memory that I wake up to most often. This was the first time that the Chimney Bat meant more to me than just some story parents told to scare their children.
Nora was screaming from the back of a police car that she would burn it up before it could fly away with any more of her babies. She screamed until her throat was raw. She would burn it and she would kill it.
Then the dream ends, but that’s not where the story ends for me.
***
The next afternoon, I would sit in the Sheriff’s office and describe everything that had happened. The Sheriff was very nice about it all, and made sure that I knew that this was absolutely voluntary, and that anything I could tell them might be helpful in their investigation.
Everyone already knew the Nora and Jackson Tibault’s baby had disappeared four nights ago. That’s when the whispers about the Chimney Bat started.
I told the Sheriff that Mr. Tibault had called me earlier in the day to help watch over the kids. He and Nora had not slept since that night, and they needed to rest. Just for a couple of hours.
Of course I went over to help them. I had been babysitting for them for years, and I felt so bad for them. Jackson, he asked me to call him that, said that Mason and Jenny had begged for me to come.
I got there sometime after lunch. Jackson mumbled something about food in the fridge and stumbled upstairs. I was glad they were going to get some rest.
I wasn’t supposed to stay long, but by dinnertime they were still sleeping. I made some calls and planned to stay. The kids and I made dinner.
About an hour after dark, I heard Nora scream and she came crashing down the stairs, yelling about making the fire. I didn’t need to explain about the fire to the sheriff. Everybody around here understands about that.
Nora was frantic, crazy, using too much paper to get a fire started and smoke started to come into the living room. Mr. Tibault, Jackson, opened the door to let the smoke out, but the fire got too big. It filled the entire fireplace, but Nora wouldn’t stop putting more wood in. He tried to slow her down, but she just screamed and clawed at him. The flames started to come outside of the edges of the fireplace.
Mr. Tibault got all weird then, and he wouldn’t do anything else to stop her. The kids were crying, and I didn’t know what else to do, so I called the police.
I guess he didn’t notice until I started talking, but then he was furious. He ran over and slapped the phone out of my hand, and slapped me in the face. He was screaming, calling me names and telling me I didn’t know anything.
He kept hitting me until he knocked me down, and I just stayed there. After a little while, he walked back over to Nora and just watched her put more wood into the fire.
They were both crying and saying things that didn’t make sense.
Then the Sheriff kicked the door open, and he knew everything that happened after that.
I realized that I had started to cry while I was telling the story. Somehow, it was worse talking about the whole thing than it was going through it. The Sheriff told me to slow down, handed me a tissue and said I had been through a lot for a thirteen year old.
Another police officer waved through the glass. The Sheriff nodded, stood, and told me he would be back in a minute.
I dabbed at my eyes with the tissue, and looked around. There were folders on the desk labeled “Sex Offender Registry” and “Child Abductions”. There was a notepad he had used to take notes while I told him the story. There was a circle around the part where I had said that the Tibaults were acting weird.
I looked up at the lobby and saw Mr. Tibault walking toward me, an officer leading him to the room next to the one I was in. I smiled and waved to him, but he looked away and ignored me.
I know it sounds crazy, but out of everything, I think that hurt the worst.
The Sheriff came back in, thanked me for being brave, and asked me if I wanted to press charges against Mr. Tibault for hitting me.
I said no. I didn’t know then that it wasn’t even really my decision; I just wanted to go home.
The Sheriff watched me very closely for a moment, nodded, and let me go.
***
The Chimney Bat is an old story. People say it goes all of the way back to the Indians that lived in these mountains before we did, that it was based on one of their legends, or gods, or something like that. The story goes that there was a giant bat deep in the caves of the mountains. It was an evil bat, and it lived by eating small children. When a child was born, the bat would hear it cry and if the parents were not watchful, if they didn’t keep a fire burning at night, the giant bat would crawl down their chimney and take the child.
You can always tell who has kids by driving through the mountains at night and smelling for smoke. It works like a charm. Even in the summertime.
I think we were all terrified by the story when we were growing up, and as soon as I was old enough to know better, I just figured that it was the kids who pleaded with their parents to build the fires. “If you don’t go to bed, I won’t build the fire and the Chimney Bat will come…” I figured they begged just like I had.
By the time I was twelve, I swore that I would never tell any ridiculous stories like that to my children. I hated that story. After that night at the Tibault’s, I swore the same thing again, partly because I still didn’t believe in any giant bat for one second, and partly because the Tibaults scared me. I was never big on superstition, and after that night, I’ll leave a house before I sit in front of a fire.
But the rumors grew, and the stories followed. They were whispered quietly at night, when people thought that their children weren’t listening. But children are always listening.
And as a child, no one takes the time to explain things to you. No one really wants to tell you that the place that you live in has an unusually high number of abductions. You find that part out by listening to the whispers, but you hear other things as well, about kidnappers, child predators, and molesters.
The next day, your parents just tell you not to leave their side and never talk to strangers.
But there never really were any strangers around. So you grow up confused, scared because of the things you hear and because the adults are scared, and you have no real idea of what’s happening at all. I don’t miss childhood. I don’t miss it at all.
The Tibaults were not the only family to have a child abducted that year. Two other cases had taken place the summer and the fall before, and like the Tibault’s, there was no trace of the child. But that night was like a trigger, and the Chimney Bat was all that people would talk about after that.
Rumors swirled around that the Sheriff had found something on the roof the night the baby was stolen, but the police were tight lipped about it. The town started the biggest investigation that it had ever seen and they even brought in the FBI.
They spent a little time with some of the town’s people, a lot of time with the families that had lost a child, and they ignored the people who were spreading rumors and saying crazy things. I don’t know what ever came of those meetings with the Tibault’s, but a few months later, Jackson and Nora moved and I never saw them or the kids again. No one ever found a trace of the baby.
Mostly though, the police and FBI were very quiet about everything and that just added fuel to the fire off the rumor mill. People began to talk about the bat as if it were real. Some said it was a creature, just like the Indian legends said. Others said it was a demon and that it came from hell to punish sinners.
One man, probably the most outspoken of anyone and definitely the craziest, swore up and down that it was a shape shifter. He said that it was a person who lived among us, that they knew everyone in the town, and would know who had children and what houses to go to find them in. He said that a shifter could change from a person into a bat, steal a child, and then change back into a person, and no one would ever know. He was a crazy, little man named Ronald Meyer with a beard and slicked back hair. Everyone knew him as a local handyman that lived alone, and they figured that his wagon must have tipped a little. No one paid too much attention to him. The FBI wouldn’t see him at all.
For me, the investigation just became part of the background of normal life. Weeks passed, turned into months, and after a year with no other children missing, the whole thing started to fade away. Not like it never happened, but more like people were relieved that it had stopped and no one wanted to talk about it anymore.
The fires never stopped, though, and the smell of wood smoke was so common that you only noticed if you ever went out of town where you couldn’t smell it.
Two years later, another child disappeared. The investigation heated up again, found nothing, and then a long time passed without anything happening at all.
Five or six years went by and the smell of smoke faded along with the memories. The town relaxed a little and people began to move on with their lives.
Another thing happened during that time. People began to move here from the city. They said that they wanted cleaner air, a better life. They started building houses and renovating buildings in town. They brought in lots of money, lots of business, and lots of children. But they didn’t know to keep a fire going at night.
***
I got married when I was twenty-three. I should have listened to my mother who told me to wait, but I ignored her, and two years later I found out that my husband had added a “don’t mind if” to his “I do” and I ended up with a divorce, a old farmhouse that had seen better days, and a two year old daughter.
My ex pays child support most of the time, and as much as the old house needs work, it’s big and warm, and a wonderful place to raise my daughter. Her name is Danni, I love her more than life itself, and I would do it all over again a hundred times just to have her.
I had a good job at the hospital, and it’s the only one in three counties, so work was steady. The benefits were great and they had childcare. When I was off, we would stay at home and read, watch cartoons sometimes, and bake. From time to time, my mother would ask if we were okay out here all by ourselves. I used to think that we were.
It was about a year ago, during one of those summers when storms churn up out of nowhere and the rain pounds down until you think the roof is going to collapse. As it happened, mine did in a few spots, so the day came when I had to call the man who repaired roofs. Ronald Meyer.
He drove out the next Saturday, on a hot afternoon. He said that he generally preferred to work in the mornings before the sun heated everything up, but that he was always busy after a big storm and he was trying to fix everyone up before the next one.
He was older now, and thinner, but he still kept that beard and his hair slicked back. He was a bit curt that day and didn’t waste any time getting up on the roof, but I didn’t mind. I didn’t want to talk about shape shifters; I just wanted him to fix my roof.
He stayed up on the roof for a while, banging around a little, walking around a lot, and I realized that I hated the feeling of knowing that someone was on my roof. I can’t explain it; it just made me really uncomfortable.
But he finished soon enough, climbed down and told me that he had found the leaks and fixed them. He took his tools back to his truck and wrote out an invoice. “Meyer’s Repair” was the name of his business. Most of the older folks didn’t bother with fancy names.
I invited him inside while I wrote out the check. The amount was more than I could really afford, but reasonable, and I wasn’t going to live with a leaky roof, I just wasn’t.
I offered Mr. Meyer a glass of water, which he accepted, and I sat down too write that check.
He took his water out into the living room and after a moment, called out, “You clean your fireplace this morning?”
I looked up to see him kneeling beside it.
“No…why do you ask?”
He spoke without moving, “It’s cold. No ashes. You aren’t keeping fires at night? Most people do, you know, with the young ones and all.”
My hand had stopped writing. I was staring at the table. A voice I hardly knew came from my mouth.
“I don’t believe in superstitions, Mr. Meyer. But, I do believe in twelve gauge shotguns. I figure buckshot will be more effective against an intruder, anyway, whether they walk, crawl, or fly.”
I signed the check, ripped it from the book and held it out.
“I didn’t mean any offense, ma’am,” he looked genuinely sorry now as he walked over. “Most folks would have already asked me if I saw anything up there. You know, scratches around the chimney, or anything like that. But you’re right to call them superstitions, and I ought to have better sense than to go around scaring young mothers and children.” He paused for a brief moment, “Please accept the work I’ve done as an apology.” He held the check back out to me.
I was not happy with this. I don’t ask for favors from people and I pay what I owe. At the same time, I realized that I very badly wanted this man out of my home. He must have seen that on my face as he took on a genuine and sincere voice.
“Really, it’s okay. I’d be pleased to know that you spent this on shotgun shells.” He laid the check on the table, nodded, and walked out of the house without another word.
The whole thing bothered me more than I could explain. I wished it had never happened, but I didn’t know why, at least not then. I did buy more shells with some of that money.
***
About a month later, another storm hit. It was a bad one, knocking the power out and the house was pitch dark as we drove home from work that night. I left the headlights on the front door until I was inside and had some candles lit. The thunder was intense, and it scared Danni, but I held her and soothed her and we snuggled under some blankets on the couch and listened to the rain pour down over us.
We fell asleep that way, with the sound of rain drowning everything else out. Later, when it began to let up and the thunder faded away, I slowly woke, and it was one of those times in life that I think of as a perfect moment.
Danni was curled into my chest. The air was quiet and soft, and the last few drops of rain fell, almost like a kiss goodnight. I was drifting back to sleep when I heard a sound that was not rain.
Some part of my subconscious must have heard it, a soft scratch from above, and in my sleep confused mind, I thought of Ronald Meyer, and how I had hated it when he was on my roof, and why he had asked about my fireplace.
I came awake hard them, fear prickling over my skin and my breath hard to find. Something scrabbled across the roof and I knew that it had heard me come awake. It had given up stealth for speed. Metal bent and popped above the chimney, followed by the sound of nails scratching over bricks.
My heart was pounding. We sat only feet away from the empty fireplace and I was still sleep fogged, but the sounds of sliding and scratching were enough to send me to my feet, running for the bedroom and slamming the door shut behind me. I lay Danni on the bed, still asleep, and grabbed the gun from underneath, wheeled around and pointed it at the door.
Nothing happened for a moment. Candles were still burning in the living room and gave enough light to cast a shadow under the door as the thing moved closer. Another moment passed, then it began smelling under the door, making a horrible snuffling sound until midway when it must have found our scent, and then breathed in deeply.
I pulled the trigger without thinking. The bottom of the door blew apart, a screech split the air worse than nails over a chalkboard and I was night blind from the muzzle flash. Danni started to wail and I panicked, jacking another shell into the chamber, and fired again.
The ringing in my ears slowly let up and my vision came back. Nothing moved in the living room. Nothing lay on the floor.
I jacked my last shell into the chamber and backed up to the drawer where I kept the shells. Danni was really crying now, but I couldn’t take my eyes off of the doorway. My hand found the box of shells, fumbled it open and put a handful into my pocket and a couple more into the gun. Then I walked slowly to the door.
Next to the fireplace knelt Ronald Meyer, naked, bleeding and obviously in pain. He pointed with his hand like he wanted me to put the gun down. I was shocked, completely confused, and falling apart. I started to cry. He looked up at me and his eyes filled with horror.
It had waited just outside of the door for me to walk out. Now it moved and my vision filled with black as it attacked me. I felt hot skin covered in soft hair, and the pain of nail driving into my skin as it wrapped leathery wings around me. I caught a glimpse of its face, eyes glittering over needle sharp fangs, and those fangs bit deeply into my arm. We hit the floor and something in my shoulder snapped sending pain throbbing up and down my spine.
But as soon as it had begun, it was over. Another black blur filled my vision and the bat was torn off of me. Danni was screaming, which was the only way I knew that she was still all right and I pushed up with my good arm.
Two massive bats circled each other in front of me. In a flash, they were on each other and tiny bits of fur and skin flew as claws raked across flesh and teeth plunged in for killing blows. Blood spattered across a wall, spraying from the neck of one of them. That high pitched shriek filled the house again and I finally stumbled up, cradled the gun in my bad arm and fired one more time at almost point blank range.
One bat was blown off of its feet and thrown onto the floor. The other was spun to the side and went sprawling as well. Both forms lay still, unmoving, and then as I watched, soft black hair sank into skin and disappeared. Wings were pulled under arms and into skin and animal features slowly melted into human. Within moments, two men now lay on my floor. One was Ronald Meyer. The other was Doctor Hampstead, the man who had delivered Danni. He had delivered me. He had delivered at least half of the county…
“Don’t let him change back…” Ronald Meyer’s voice croaked as he pointed to the other man. “He has to change to heal…”
Dr. Hampstead’s eyes were open now, staring at Mr. Meyer with hate pouring out of them. Then his brow creased more deeply than it should have and the tilt around his eyes changed. He grinned and started to crawl toward Meyer, who had taken the brunt of the blast. Pain gripped my shoulder in a spasm, and I jerked, letting the gun clatter to the floor.
Fur began to appear on Dr. Hampstead’s skin now, wings unfolding from his skin and his face turned into a death mask, fangs and eyes glittering in the candlelight. The giant bat sat crouched feet away from me now, and there was no way I could reach to the gun.
It began to stalk across the floor, toward the fireplace, elbows and wings moving over its back as it moved. It disappeared into the fireplace and was gone.
I looked back at Ronald Meyer, turned halfway back to a bat himself.
“I know him now. It has to end…” the last came out as more of a hiss, then he was crawling after the other bat and disappeared up the chimney as well.
***
It’s ironic that I sold the farmhouse to a couple from the city. The day we settled, my car was already packed and as I drove to the city, I wondered how close I would live to the place they had just left.
Danni and I live in an apartment building downtown. The neighborhood isn’t great and there are days that I miss the country, but that always goes away as soon as the sun begins to go down. We don’t have a fireplace.