No one disputed the old Phillips farm was haunted. Sometimes a newcomer moved to town and overheard one of the townspeople at the Stop and Go talking about the strange lights or loud dance music coming from the darkened house. The newcomer might say, “Kids, right?”

If the sheriff was standing there, he’d likely nod and say, “Take yourself up there some Saturday night. See what you think.” Then, he’d point the way. I’m not sure how many took him up on his suggestion, but newcomers only asked once and then fell in line with our way of thinking.

Even the craziest high school daredevils didn’t go to the Phillips house. They’d heard the same story Dad told me — that in the 1960s someone dared a boy to visit the house late at night. He came back the following day unable to speak for a week, his black hair whiter than my Grandpa’s. He never spoke about what he saw and moved away shortly after.

Day or night, my friends and I stayed away. No one gathered blackberries there, even though the bushes were plentiful. We never rode our bikes past the house.

My parents drove by only if we had to go to Baxter and only in daylight. Even then they sped up, keeping their eyes straight ahead. Once night fell, they drove home the long way around.

One day, an engineer from the State came to town and announced the State was building a highway running north to Buxley. “Gonna knock that eyesore house down. Road is going to go right through it.”

Instead of being happy, we were concerned. Where would the spirits in the house go? None of us wanted them wandering around the countryside or taking up residence in our cellars or attics. We had what we thought was a nice agreement with the ghosts — stay in your house and we’ll leave you alone. Tearing down their house seemed like a bad idea.

“What about the ghosts?” Mrs. Read blurted at the meeting.

The engineer’s eyebrows raised. “No such thing!” he shouted. I saw the sheriff stand. I expected him to say, “Take yourself up there some Saturday night,” but he sat back down. We listened to the engineer, looked at his maps and remained silent.

When he left, everyone started talking at once. People were frightened. So was I. We were about five miles from the Phillips house. If the ghosts lost their home and started to wander, our house was the first one they would find.

“Maybe they’d stay in the woods?” wondered Mr. Katy.

“If you lost your house, would you settle for the woods?” Mrs. Cousins argued.

No one knew exactly what ghosts might do. “My bet is they’ll put up a fuss if they don’t want to lose the house,” suggested the sheriff. “Let’s wait and see what happens.”

The work started on a warm spring day. As soon as the bulldozer started towards the house, it stalled. No matter what the operator did, he couldn’t get it started.

The next day was no better. Heavy rains caused trucks to get stuck in the mud. As the week passed, tools started to go missing and workers blamed each other for the missing equipment. Arguments broke out. The engineer lost his temper and so did the road supervisor. No matter how they tried, they could not get close enough to the house to tear it down.

After two weeks, the road supervisor took the engineer’s map and spread it across the hood of his pick-up. “Here’s an idea,” he said, drawing two lines with his pen. “We move the road thirty feet to the side and leave the house.”

“The road won’t be straight,” the engineer complained.

“No, but it will be done,” the supervisor said.

And, that is what they did. Even with the new road, we still didn’t go near the house when we rode bikes. Years later, my parents still won’t drive past it at night.

— Valerie L. Egar is the author of the recently released children’s book, Oh No! Reindeer Flu! in which a team of huskies saves Christmas.