Then Sandy called to order drapes from J.C. Penney. She spelled out the address for delivery, and the saleswoman dropped the phone.
"When she finally got back on the phone," Sandy recalled, "she said, 'You won't believe this, your order number is 666.'"
There are other stories as you go down the row of houses. And jokes:
"You think you have it bad, this guy lives in hell."
"Well, I guess I should finally pay you back" (the street having frozen over).
"Let me guess your ZIP code."
People who are superstitious seem to take it especially hard, residents say.
"They talk to you like you have horns on your head," said Chapman. "A lot of my friends won't even say it. It's like you don't know if saying his name conjures him up, but who wants to take the risk?"
As if to counteract its sinister name, the street has attracted a number of ministers. There is Johnson, an associate priest at the Orthodox Church of St. Matthew in Columbia, who sprinkles holy water through his house every year. Until recently, a Methodist minister lived a few houses down. A third minister has one of the street's two signs planted in his front yard.
The other residents have found their own ways to combat the evil name.
At stores, Aycock casually tells the clerks that the street name is spelled "Satan Wood" but pronounced sat-AN-wood. ("I tell them it's French," he said.)
Other residents spell out the letters with lightning speed, hoping people won't catch on.
But the most common tactic is fudging the errant letter and using a variation of the intended name: "Satinwood Drive."
"Not everyone admits it, but I think a lot of people secretly do it," said Chapman, who never gives her friends in Texas her real address. "The postman understands. I've never had any trouble getting the mail."
