“The Spirit Fiddler”

When the Spirit Fiddler picked up his worn wooden instrument he could make it whisper in your ear 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 ancient fiddle moaned and it wailed, it tempted you, it laughed with joy and filled your heart. And if your mood was blue, it picked you up and held you in tender arms.

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 was as legendary as the grand hotels where he performed, and his repertoire of tunes seemed endless. They said his playing could wear out a dozen dancers before his long and nimble fingers had even loosened up. Accompanists tried to keep up, but when they finally tired and the dancers went home, he would quietly pack his instrument and make his way over to the Greenhill Cemetery in Waynesville, N.C., where it was rumored he had a small but devoted audience.

By the 1950’s, the hotels that had been his bread and butter had either shuttered or burned to the ground, and his need to fiddle began to overwhelm him. Although his celebrity had long since faded, his playing grew even more fierce, holding 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, something changed. The townspeople all agreed that his playing on that unforgettable night was truly inspired. He drove the unsuspecting dancers to feverish heights, but it was the legendary finale that would haunt them all until their final days. The Sheriff’s investigation was never publicly released, but it was rumored that the legendary fiddler had finally “crossed over.”

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Postcard of the Hotel Gordon in Waynesville, N.C.

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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 downpour drove the boisterous celebrants from the veranda straight into the majestic old hotel – and once inside, the manager led them directly into the opulent grand-ballroom.

Warming up with a backyard jig

The fiddler warmed up with a few lively tunes as the dancers dried off. Then he shifted in his seat, adjusted the bow, and with a quick nod to the band released a musical volley that engulfed them like a tidal wave. The music held his audience in its devilish spell, for it came from a true master at the height of his craft.

He suddenly 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 private passage. Occasionally, a board creaked 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 violent 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 young couple had disappeared back up the staircase. No footsteps, no creaking boards, no slamming doors. They had simply vanished.

The silence fairly rippled…and then someone smelled the smoke. One of the large brocaded curtains had caught fire, and the flames quickly raced through the old hotel. They tried to save the Gordon, but it burned straight to the ground. The townspeople could only stare at the smoldering ruins, numb with disbelief.

The Spirit Fiddler no longer appears in public, but the rumor is he can still be heard playing that private gig at the Greenhill Cemetery. His performance begins at the stroke of midnight. His head drops low, his eyes close, and he becomes oblivious to everything except his ghostly audience of two, still keeping time to the music. And the melody he coaxes from that battered instrument is rapturous, and heavenly, and perfect for dancing.

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–The Hotel Gordon–

In a daze after the fiery demise of the Hotel Gordon in Waynesville, N.C.

–Photographs courtesy of the Haywood County Public Library–

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