You’re flipping through a dusty hardcover in a quiet corner of a local branch and something falls out. Usually, it’s a bookmark or a grocery list from 1994. But for some readers, the reality of bats in the library book is a literal, biological encounter that sounds like a plot point from a Brian Lies picture book but carries real-world implications for public health and conservation. It’s a weird intersection of literature and wildlife biology.
Honestly, it’s the kind of thing that makes you jump.
People often confuse the whimsical imagery of the popular children’s book series by Brian Lies—where bats feast on "copy-cat" snacks and frolic among the stacks—with the actual physical presence of bats in municipal buildings. While the book series Bats at the Library is a charming piece of fiction that boosted the "bat-popularity" index significantly, real-world librarians deal with a much more complex situation when these winged mammals decide to roost behind the encyclopedias.
When Fiction Becomes a Reality in the Stacks
The phrase bats in the library book usually triggers a memory of a specific, beautifully illustrated story. Brian Lies’ work is a staple in elementary education for a reason. It uses rhythmic prose to show bats discovering a window left open, leading to a night of "reading" and exploration. It’s cute. It’s harmless.
Real life is grittier.
In 2023, several libraries across the United States, including branches in Utah and Texas, had to temporarily close or cordon off sections due to bat colonies. When we talk about a bat "in" a book, we’re often talking about the tiny, crevice-dwelling species like the Little Brown Bat (Myotis lucifugus) or the Big Brown Bat (Eptesicus fuscus). These creatures are masters of compression. They can squeeze into gaps no thicker than a human thumb. A shelf of loosely packed books? That’s basically a luxury high-rise for a bat looking for a temperature-controlled nap.
It’s not just about the animal itself. It’s the evidence they leave behind. Guano—bat droppings—isn't just messy; it can carry Histoplasma capsulatum, a fungus that causes histoplasmosis if spores are inhaled. If a bat has been roosting near or on a collection of archives, the cleanup isn't just a matter of a damp cloth. It’s a biohazard protocol.
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Why Libraries Are Basically Bat Magnets
Old buildings. High ceilings. Quiet corners. Very little foot traffic in the deep archives. If you were a nocturnal mammal looking for a spot to spend the daylight hours, you’d pick the local history room too.
Most people don’t realize that libraries are often housed in aging, monumental architecture. These buildings have "settled." They have gaps in the masonry. They have intricate rooflines that are impossible to seal perfectly. A bat doesn't need a door. It needs a crack.
Once inside, the books themselves provide excellent insulation. The paper and cloth bindings mimic the texture of tree bark or rock faces. For a bat, a gap between the spine of a book and the shelf is a secure, dark sanctuary. It’s sort of a perfect storm of environmental factors.
But there’s a massive misconception that this is a "pest" problem. It’s actually a "cohabitation" problem. Most of these bats are protected species. You can’t just go in with a tennis racket or a can of spray. In many states, harming a bat—even one that’s currently occupying your favorite mystery novel—is a federal offense under various conservation acts.
The Rabies Panic vs. The Reality
Let’s talk about the elephant in the room. Or the bat in the book.
Rabies.
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Whenever a library announces a closure due to bats in the library book or roosting in the rafters, the community tends to freak out. It’s understandable but usually disproportionate. According to the CDC, the vast majority of bats do not have rabies. Estimates suggest that even in bats submitted for testing (which are usually those acting sick or strangely), only about 6% have the virus. In the general wild population, that number is likely less than 1%.
However, the "book" aspect adds a layer of risk. If you’re reaching for a book and accidentally squeeze a bat that’s tucked away, it’s going to bite. It’s terrified. Their teeth are tiny. You might not even feel a puncture that looks like a needle prick. This is why libraries take a "zero tolerance" approach to bats in public areas. If there’s a chance a patron was in a room with a bat and can’t rule out physical contact, the protocol often involves the "R" word.
Historical Incidents of Bats and Paper
There is a long, weird history of bats and libraries. It's not a new phenomenon. In the Joanina Library at the University of Coimbra in Portugal, they’ve had a colony of bats living behind the bookshelves for centuries.
They don't kick them out.
The librarians there actually appreciate the bats. Why? Because the bats eat the insects—bookworms and moths—that would otherwise eat the 300-year-old leather bindings and parchment. Every night, the staff covers the ornate tables with leather sheets to protect them from guano, and every morning, they clean it up. It’s a symbiotic relationship that has preserved one of the world’s most beautiful book collections.
In the U.S., we aren't quite so tolerant. Our libraries are built differently, and our health codes are a lot more stringent. We see a bat in a book as a failure of maintenance; they see it as a natural pest control system.
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Dealing With an Encounter: What to Actually Do
If you’re actually at a library and you see a bat—whether it’s tucked into a shelf or hanging from a H2 section sign—don't be a hero.
- Do not touch it. Even with gloves. If the bat is grounded or in a reachable spot, it’s likely stressed or sick.
- Alert the staff immediately. Libraries have specific protocols for this. They usually involve calling a local wildlife rehabilitator or an "exclusion" expert.
- Keep your distance. If the bat starts flying, it’s not attacking you. It’s using echolocation to find an exit. It can see you just fine (they aren’t actually blind), but it’s panicked by the indoor acoustics.
For the librarians, the "exclusion" process is the only way forward. This involves finding the entry points—often high up near the eaves—and installing one-way valves. The bats can leave at night to hunt, but they can't get back in. You can’t do this during the summer, though. That’s maternity season. If you seal the building while flightless pups are inside, they’ll die, and then you have a whole different, much smellier problem.
What Most People Get Wrong About the Literature
When parents search for "bats in the library book," they are almost always looking for the Lies series. The confusion between the "cute" bat and the "real" bat creates a strange educational gap. We teach kids that bats are magical book-lovers, which is great for conservation sentiment, but we often fail to teach the "look but don't touch" reality.
The Brian Lies books are technically accurate in one sense: bats are social and inquisitive. They aren't the mindless monsters of 1930s cinema. They are vital to our ecosystem, eating thousands of mosquitoes an hour. Without them, our agricultural systems would basically collapse under the weight of pest pressure.
Next Steps for Readers and Library Lovers
If you've encountered a bat in a public space or are concerned about wildlife in your local archives, the most effective thing you can do is check the Bat Conservation International (BCI) website for a list of certified exclusion professionals. This ensures the animals are moved humanely and legally.
For those who simply love the story, consider donating a copy of Bats at the Library to a local school. It’s a fantastic way to spark an interest in biology and literacy simultaneously. Just remind the kids: if they see a real one tucked into the pages of a National Geographic, they should tell a grown-up rather than trying to make a new friend.
Stay curious, but keep your hands off the wildlife. The books will still be there after the experts move the residents back to the trees where they belong.