When the Spirit Fiddler picked up his worn wooden instrument he could make it whisper to you like a long lost friend, seduce you like an exciting new lover, or thrill you like the perfect dance partner. In his scarred and calloused hands the old fiddle moaned and wailed, it beckoned you, it laughed with you – it filled your heart. And if your mood was blue, it wept a river of tears right alongside you.
He played the fiddle with more fervor then any other man in Western North Carolina. His services were in constant demand, and you had to book him well in advance for a party or a square dance. His passion for fiddling became as legendary as the grand hotels where he performed, and his repertoire of tunes seemed endless. They said his playing could wear out dozens of dancers in succession before his long and nimble fingers had even loosened up. Accompanists fell like flies, and when they finally quit and the dancers went home, he would carefully pack up his instrument and make his way over to the Greenhill Cemetery in Waynesville, N.C., where it was rumored he had a small but intensely devoted audience.
By the 1950’s, the hotels that had been his bread and butter had either shuttered or burned to the ground – but his need to fiddle overwhelmed him. Although his celebrity had long since faded his playing grew even more fierce, and he could still hold his listeners captive to every note, unable to stop dancing to his intoxicatingly fiendish tunes.
The last of the grand hotels to use his services was the Hotel Gordon, located just outside of Waynesville in the heart of Haywood County. Built in 1890, the hotel stood on a bluff overlooking the Richland River, and was famous for its fabulous shade trees and the cool mountain breezes that swept over its spacious veranda. The Spirit Fiddler had entertained the guests there for as long as anyone could remember.
And then one fateful evening, everything changed. The townspeople all agreed that his playing that night was truly inspired. Although he drove the unsuspecting dancers to feverish and untold heights, it was the finale that would come to haunt them until the end of their days. The Sheriff’s Department never released the results of their investigation, but it was rumored that the fiddler had finally “crossed over to the other side.”
A Harrowing Night
The day began with ominous clouds and rolling mountain thunder. The hammering rain started early, and the storm grew in intensity until it felt as if the furies had descended. The torrential downpour drove the boisterous celebrants straight into the majestic old hotel – once there, the manager led them directly into the opulent grand-ballroom.
The fiddler warmed up with a few lively tunes as the dancers stumbled inside. Then he shifted in his seat, adjusted the bow, and with a quick nod to the band released a musical volley that rolled over them like a tidal wave. The music held his audience in its captive spell, for it came from a master at the height of his craft.
He finally slowed to a waltz as the mighty storm pounded away. And then the group witnessed a sight few have ever seen – a ghostly couple, floating softly down the main hall staircase. The crowd stopped cold while the couple slowly descended, seemingly reluctant to leave the dim seclusion of their passage. Occasionally, a board creaked and moaned under their feet. Step-by-slow-step the lovers drifted down the wooden stairs, always in time with the music. Everyone stood as if stone.
When they reached the bottom, the revelers were shaken from their rapture by a brilliant crack of lightening. The Spirit Fiddler finished the waltz with a flourish and fell to his knees. He raised his fiddle to the sky, a look of ecstasy on his face. When the shocked crowd turned around again, the ghostly couple had disappeared back up the staircase. No footsteps, no creaking boards, no slamming doors. They simply vanished.
The silence fairly rippled…and then someone smelled the smoke. One of the large brocaded curtains had caught fire, and the flames raced through the old hotel. They tried to save the Gordon, but by morning it had burned straight to the ground. The townspeople stared at the smoldering ruins, numb in disbelief.
The Spirit Fiddler was never seen again, but they say he occasionally plays a private gig at the Greenhill Cemetery. The performance always begins at midnight when his head drops low, his eyes close, and he becomes oblivious to everything except his rapt audience of two, still keeping time to the music. And the melody he coaxes from that beat-up and battered instrument is rapturous, and heavenly, and wonderful for dancing.
–The Hotel Gordon–
–Photographs courtesy of the Haywood County Public Library–