There are certain sounds you expect to hear when you live in the High Country.

Wind in the trees.

Rain on the roof.

And, around this time of year, the soft, persistent fluttering of Bogong moths settling into the ceiling space for the season.

It is a familiar sound. Easy to ignore. Almost comforting in a mildly inconvenient sort of way.

For several nights, I had been hearing it. That gentle, papery flutter somewhere above the bedroom ceiling. I barely gave it a second thought.

“Just moths,” I told myself, with the quiet confidence of someone who lives in the mountains and has seen a thing or two.

The species, for those unfamiliar, is the Bogong moth, a regular seasonal visitor across Victoria. They arrive in numbers, tuck themselves into cool, dark places, and generally keep to themselves.

A bit of fluttering in the roof space is part of the deal.

Around 2am I was woken by a soft, rhythmic sound. Just enough to pull me out of sleep. At first, I assumed it was the same as the previous nights.

It was just the moths, and clearly nothing to worry about.

Then I opened my eyes. Something moved above me.

And whatever it was, it was very much inside the room!

It circled once, neatly and efficiently, just below the ceiling.

And in that moment, the comforting Bogong moth theory collapsed entirely.

This was not a moth. This was a bat.

Now, I am not someone who startles easily.

Living out here tends to recalibrate your expectations.

But there is a particular kind of urgency that comes with realising there is an unidentified flying creature doing laps above your bed in the middle of the night.

I stayed very still, which felt like a reasonable starting point.

The bat, meanwhile, continued its circuit. Around the room, across the ceiling, looping back again as if it had a set flight plan and no intention of deviating from it.

It was small, perhaps five to eight centimeters, but with ears so large they looked almost unreal. Wide, upright, and completely out of proportion to the rest of it.

From what I have since learned, it was most likely a Lesser Long-eared Bat, a local species known for exactly those oversized ears and its slow, fluttering flight.

Outdoors, they are quiet and useful, feeding on insects and going about their business unnoticed.

Indoors, at 2am, they are something else entirely.

At this point, I glanced at the cats.

All very confident in their abilities when it came to anything that moved unexpectedly.

One was crouched on the bed, eyes locked on the bat, following every movement with intense focus.

Another had taken up a position slightly further back, offering what I can only assume was moral support.

The third watched for a few seconds, then sat down and began grooming, having apparently assessed the situation and decided it was not worth the effort.

And there we remained, watching.

The bat continued its slow, looping flight. Not fast or erratic, but steady. Controlled. Almost calm, which somehow made it more unsettling.

Every now and then it would dip lower, close enough to remind me that the distance between us was entirely negotiable.

I briefly considered getting up and attempting to intervene, but this seemed like a situation best handled with quiet patience.

Time passed.

It is difficult to say how long.

Time behaves differently when you are lying in the dark tracking something that should not be there.

Eventually, the fluttering stopped.

Just like that.

No dramatic exit. No clear resolution. Just silence.

I stayed where I was for a while, listening, waiting for any sign that the situation might resume.

Nothing.

One of the cats glanced at the ceiling, then at me, as if to confirm that whatever had just happened was now officially over.

At some point, I must have fallen back asleep.

By morning, the room was quiet, and the bat was safely discovered nestling in a corner, unharmed.

With a little gentle encouragement, it was guided back outside, free to continue its night-time adventures.

The cats had already moved on with their day.

And as the sun rose, the only evidence was the memory of it, and the realisation that for several nights I had been confidently attributing that fluttering sound to Bogong moths in the ceiling.

Which, to be fair, is still a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Just not, as it turns out, the correct one.