The Average Blogger : Exterminator? Or Exorcist?

"I got a question -- why don't white people just leave the house when there's a ghost in the house?"
(Note: You'll have to scroll in about 3 minutes to get to this part.)

It's a good damn question.....

Picture, if you will, a bleary-eyed Average Blogger autopiloting through her 3:40 a.m. wake-up routine:
Smack the alarm clock.
Stumble in the dark into the closet.
Find a dress that fits and isn't covered with crumbs or cat fuzz. Stumble downstairs.
Curl hair.
Realize shoes are upstairs, fumble back up in the dark. Kick a toy that says "Smile and Wave, Boys, Smile and Wave," and curse quietly because it probably woke up Not Your Average Blogger, even though he doesn't budge.
Go back downstairs, make sure the Young Prince's backpack has a snack in it. Forget to look for his water bottle.
Make sure shoes match. Find coat. Find ID badge. Grab purse. Turn off dining room light. Go through dark kitchen and open back door to garage.

And freak right the fuck out and slam the door because OMIGOD SOMETHING IS HISSING AND MAKING SHRIEKY NOISES VERY CLOSE TO MY BODY AAAHH!!!

Listen as shriekhissing continues. It stops.
Debate turning around right then and going back to bed. Decide sleep is impossible. Debate using front door right that second.
Stupidly decide maybe if the light is on, the creature will be visible. Turn on light. Open door again.

See nothing and freak right the fuck out and slam the door AGAIN because OMIGOD SOMETHING IS HISSING AND MAKING SHRIEKY NOISES VERY CLOSE TO MY BODY AND I CAN'T EVEN SEE WHAT IT IS AAAHH!!!

Listen as shriekhissing continues. It stops.
Leave a note for NYAB that there is a monster in the garage. Go out the front door.

Get into car and think, Hm. Maybe I'll see what it is if I turn on my headlights.
Open garage door, turn on high-beams. See nothing.
Blackberry a note to NYAB indicating such.
Go to work.

Four hours later, call NYAB and ask him if he has investigated. Listen to YP singing in background as NYAB says, "Huh? What note? I haven't been in the garage. Oh... note. OK."
"So?"
"You mean you want me to look now?"
"Well, sure."
(Clunk, the phone gets put down. Footsteps. YP singing. Door opens.)
"JESUS CHRIST ALMIGHTY!!!" (Door slams.)
(Hear YP scud past the phone, apparently in socks.) What? What, Dad? Why did you say that?
"Never mind. Go finish your breakfast."
(Footsteps. YP singing. Clunk, the phone gets picked up.)
"It was a fucking bat stuck in the door."
"Stuck in the door? You mean the screen door? That part between the screen and the grill protecting the screen?"
"No. I mean, stuck in the screen door. Between the screen door and the actual door into the house. Like you slam your finger in a door. I don't know how it got there. I'm going to leave it there to die. If I start messing around with it, it will wind up in the house."

Start giggling at NYAB's outburst of a few seconds earlier while simultaneously shuddering at OMIGOD A BAT WAS HISSING AND MAKING SHRIEKY NOISES VERY CLOSE TO MY BODY I MEAN MY FRICKING HEAD OMIGOD!

So, yeah. Another damn bat. What is it with those things?? Dear bats: The bugs you like to eat are OUTSIDE. Not in my house. Not in my garage. NOT IN MY BACK DOOR. Go. Away. Or I will sic my cat on the lot of you. Love, AB.

Edited to Add: The little bastard was dead when I got home, thank goodness. Though I'm sure I must have amused anyone who was watching as I put on my gardening gloves and hat and then opened the door with a dirt rake. And still shrieked like a girl from four feet away when the limp thing fell from the top of the door on to the step.