The Ghost of Harry N

The Ghost of Harry N

By Mark Leitheiser

In my last article, you may recall I wrote about shared experiences and their effect on our relationships. Based on the number of readers’ responses to that fine article - exactly zero - I thought it would be wise to explore this topic one more time. I wrote about music, bathrooms, television and more but I believe there is one more shared experience that needs to be explored before I move on to more mundane topics: haunted houses.

You won’t have to look very far to find a haunted house. Renville County is full of them. Don’t believe me? Just ask around. Nearly everyone, it seems, grew up near a haunted house that gave them and their friends the creeps. These dilapidated houses, along with their spooky occupants, could be found just about everywhere, even in the boondocks up north. Which is why I want to warn you: if you ever travel up north, especially near State Highway 34, you’d better watch out . . . the ghost of Harry N may be waiting for you!

One of the first lessons a child who grew up along Highway 34 learned was to stay away from Harry N’s place. His reputation as a dark, evil bachelor was the stuff of local legend. He was so mean that even our parents spoke of him in awed admiration and wildlife gave wide berth when approaching his farm.

I got a close-up view of Harry’s farm when I was in elementary school. Squatting low below brushy hills for complete isolation, the place was set to host an auction sale after Harry’s alleged death. Apparently, the Grim Reaper was the only individual with the guts to visit Harry and I suspect even he had to think twice.

The sale, which was held on a warm summer morning, drew quite a crowd. Whether neighbors were there to buy something or to gawk at the place, I never knew. I quickly joined my buddies and we kicked around the overgrown yard with goosebumps on our necks. The front door to the house, hanging crooked and open, allowed visitors a rare opportunity to look inside, but as we considered the sagging windows, which looked like tired, pale eyes, we kept our distance. We didn’t know much back then, but we knew this: we were not setting foot in that house.

I climbed into the truck to return home with a foolish sense of victory. I had visited Harry N’s farm and walked away untouched. But haunted houses are patient places and as I would soon learn, the ghost of Harry N was not to be ignored.

Six months later, we were going to visit our neighbors, Art and Luella, who lived a few miles up the road. It was winter and back then, everyone traveled on snowmobiles. Our “sled” was a red, white, and blue Polaris Mustang that looked and sounded like an army tank with skis. My sister sat warm and protected, sandwiched between Mom and Dad on the tall, red seat.

To complete the family travels, Dad constructed a sled for my brother, Doug and I. It sat on skis with two rows of iron bars for sides which offered absolutely no protection against the elements.

This poor man’s dog sled was attached to the Mustang with a steel pin and made for serviceable transportation across the frozen tundra.

The trip to our neighbors’ place was uneventful. Later, after homemade bars and coffee, we bundled up for the cold ride home, blissfully unaware of what Harry had in store for us. Mom covered Doug and I with enough blankets to qualify as a sliding igloo while Dad started the Mustang. It belched smoke and noise and we were off for a trip to remember.

Dad knew the trails to get us home and thanks to the light of a frozen moon, had no trouble finding his way. All seemed well until Doug and I noticed we were suddenly slowing to a stop. Peeking out from our igloo covers, we were alarmed to discover that a sharp bump had popped the pin from the Mustang and Dad was pulling away without realizing what had happened.

As we watched the red light on the back of the snowmobile get swallowed by the night, we began hollering in hopes of alerting Mom or Dad. Then, looking to our left we discovered, to our horror, that we were sitting right beside Harry N’s farm. With the bright moon shining on us like a giant flashlight, leaving nowhere to hide, sheer terror set in. Surely, Harry’s ghost had us right where he wanted us.

Suddenly, our whimpers turned to screams as we panicked. Casting our igloo aside, I tried to run in my oversized bunny boots and for some reason, Doug began pushing the sled, trying to catch the Mustang. We waddled down the trail like screaming, drunk penguins with tears freezing on our cheeks but of course, it was no use.

Then, we saw it. Our fate was sealed as we saw a tiny light approaching and we accepted that Harry would take us. But as the light grew closer, a familiar growl floated our way and soon we realized it was our mighty Mustang flying across the snow. Apparently Dad had felt the load was a little light and discovered that his sons were missing. It couldn’t have been an easy decision, but in the end, to their credit, Mom and Dad returned to hitch us up and take us home.

Shared experiences matter and perhaps a fear of haunted houses is one of the few things we still experience together. Renville County has its share but there are plenty up north too. So remember, if you head up north and take a drive down State Highway 34, you’d better watch out . . . the ghost of Harry N may be waiting for you!