Opponents to a proposed AI data center in the woods of Smithfield, R.I., have leapt out from every corner with objections about tax incentives, energy usage, and even the technology itself, but they all have missed the most devastating consequence of the proposed development: it would kill a ghost.

Centuries ago in these woods, a poor, old woman in a tricorn hat lived in a scanty hovel on the lonely road to the hamlet of Hanton City. She offered gingerbread and a dram of rum to the infrequent traveler. The woman was said to be gregarious and kind, and greatly appreciated if one gave her a coin or two to supplement her sparse ways. Her sweet spirit is said to haunt the area to this day, a friendly ghost who will still offer some gingerbread if you find just the right spot to leave a coin.

Instead of change, Revity Energy would like to drop 50 acres of pavement and a data center on her.

I can imagine the proposal’s proponents laughing at my opposition to their project because of the tale of the Gingerbread Ghost. “Let’s get this straight,” they would chuckle. “You say we can’t add jobs and progress to the Rhode Island economy because we might hurt … a ghost?” Even my fellow opponents might back away from me a bit nervously and suggest: “Don’t make us look crazy!”

I take ghosts and spirits no more seriously than the next citizen of the 21st century, but something I put great weight into is the value of lore. At first glance, a bit of lore seems like a silly tale, unwritten because it wouldn’t even be worth the ink to scribble it, and certainly no reason to stymie the promise of jobs (seldomly fulfilled ) that development offers.

But lore has a great value, one that capitalism struggles to quantify, and often paves over before fully realized. To begin, lore tells us much about ourselves, our values, and histories in ways that standard histories cannot relate. It can frighten, delight, or even inspire us, and if we respect it, it can project who we are to the wider world in ways that corporatism never can.

For example, it’s difficult to imagine a world that thought little to nothing of the lore and folk histories of places such as Ireland and Scotland. For much of their past, such places were more the subjects of ridicule for their perceived lack of progress and addictions to old “magics.” What would one think now, however, if visitors to Scotland found Loch Ness had been developed — condos, business parks, and partly filled in to create data centers and parking lots. Nessie is imaginary, so imagine the jobs and tax dollars instead! This is an absurd scenario, because it’s obvious to everyone that the value of this Scottish lore has long outlasted and superseded such narrow capitalist assessments.

We actually needn’t look so far for examples of folk histories enriching us far beyond sprawl development. Here at home, the heroic tales of Ida Lewis (true lore) bring life to the romance of our famous lighthouses, the curses of Bathsheba Sherman (semi-fictionalized) have inspired a worldwide interest culminating in the “Conjuring” movies, and the tales of the Dark Swamp (pure fantasy) and Mercy Brown (semi-fictionalized) inspired the works of H.P. Lovecraft and Bram Stoker.

Indeed, our local tales have value far beyond a data center, but the trick is to respect it before the outside world recognizes it (we must see it first) and before the promises of “business parks” pave it to oblivion.

The ghost of Hanton City is said to be friendly and sweet, but I am not sure she would stay that way if a data center were dropped on her.

Andy Grover is a Providence resident and retired public school teacher.