Calvin Ross, 1960
During my high school years in Wichita and two summers back from college, I knew of an abandoned house that stood alone in a field next to my uncle’s farm outside Clearwater. My cousin Dale had shown me a trick with its square nails. I thought then, “This shack could give me a nice line for asking a girl for a date.”
Afterward, I’d occasionally ask a girl if she wanted to see a haunted house with me. I tried to pique her interest with a touch of tomfoolery. I’d say, “Local lore has it that this house had been built at the turn of the century with magical nails that play music at night. Would you like to hear it?”
If I got lucky and got a “yes,” we’d decide when to drive to the secretive place. At times clouds would choreograph the night by gliding across the moon as if on cue to guide us.
Once on the driveway, the car would scrape along tough weeds, slip sideways into deep ruts, and bump on big rocks and clods of dirt. Finally, we’d turn toward the showpiece of the evening–a tilted, weather-beaten, tired old house with a badly bent tin roof. It looked like a black and dim white opening scene from a Hitchcock movie.
An eerie “H-H-O-O-O-O-O! W-H-O-O-O-O?” from an unseen owl often amplified the mystery of the moment. The ghostly hoots of welcome–or of warning–would always come from a grove of windbreak trees still protecting the house against velocities from the southwest.
I’d park the ’53 brown Chevy hidden from the road next to a blanched grey cellar door with rusted hinges. It was only a few steps to the nearest side of the decrepit casa. The missing boards resembled a toothless smile. I’d run my fingers along the withered grain to dislodge loose nails to show her.
“See this shaft? Square, not round.” 
“Never seen one before,” she might say.
“Wanna hear ’em sing?”
“Uh-huh. Sure. If they can.”
“Oh, they can. Just listen.”
I’d lay a nail across the base of my fingers and with a flip of my hand send it spinning against the night air. It would sing a diminishing Z-Z-I-I-I-i-i-i–i–i—i–n—n—n—g!
“Oh, you silly boy!” she might say. I’d just grin. Then for more hardware stanzas, I’d spin away two or three other nails. Z-I-i-i–i–n—n—g! Z-I-i-i–i–n—n—g!
Walking back arm in arm would prompt me to tell her, “You know, I’ve heard that for couples willing to wait this house will serenade them until midnight with “Aphrodite’s Song”–that is if Venus is up. Oh, look! There it is!”
To enjoy the evening air, we’d roll down the front and back seat windows before climbing into the car. Headlights stayed off. A crescent moon and abundance of stars provided all the light we needed. If she leaned her head on my shoulder, my hopes would rise. The evening was perfect when the singing of the nails became a prelude for our own music of the night.
