(Transcribed by TurboScribe.ai. Go Unlimited to remove this message.) Night has fallen, and the moon is a
glowing golden orb in the black sky.
See how it shines on the dark back
roads of America, and on one road in
particular.
Come with us, and we'll take a walk
down the moonlit road, for the night is
waiting.
And the moon is full.
The Moonlit Road presents, episode three, The Ghost
of Fiddler's Rock.
Written by Craig Dominey, and told by Jim
McCamus.
Back in the late 1800's, Martin Stone was
the most popular young fiddle player in northeastern
Tennessee.
For years, he wandered the mountainous back roads
of Johnson County.
Playing at every social event that would have
him.
Church picnics, weddings, barn dances, even funerals.
It was a good living, allowing Martin plenty
of leisure time to do whatever he wanted.
In the summertime, Martin liked to take Sunday
off, and sit up on a rocky bluff
near the top of Stone Mountain.
There he would play his fiddle and watch
the sun come up over the green rolling
hills.
Sometimes, he would spend all day up there,
playing reel after reel, until the sun dropped
from the sky.
One day, Martin was playing a slow, leisurely
tune on his fiddle, when a rattlesnake slithered
out from under a rock.
Curled up in the sun and watched him
play.
Then another one came out and joined him,
followed by yet another.
Before Martin knew it, the surrounding rocks were
filled with rattlesnakes.
Now, most people would have fainted dead away
in terror at that point.
But Martin was fascinated, for the snakes made
no move to strike.
Instead, they swayed back and forth to the
music, like scaly reptilian metronomes.
As the sun went down and dark shadows
filled the valley, the snakes slithered back into
their dens.
Martin packed up his fiddle with a chuckle,
and made plans to come back next week,
but with a surprise.
The next Sunday, Martin climbed to the rocky
overhang and began to play his fiddle.
Again, the rattlesnakes slithered out from beneath the
rocks and listened to him, hypnotized.
Martin chuckled to himself, put down his fiddle,
and picked up a shotgun.
He began blasting away at the rattlesnakes, picking
them off one by one.
The other snakes slithered back to their dens
in terror.
Martin stopped shooting and laughed heartily as he
collected the dead snakes in a burlap sack.
Ha ha ha ha ha!
This is too easy, he thought to himself.
I can make even more money selling rattlesnake
hides.
Every Sunday, for the next few weeks, Martin
returned to the bluff, played his fiddle until
the snakes came out, then began shooting.
It became sport to him, and soon he
became known around the country as the Fiddlin'
Snake Man.
Whenever someone wanted a snake skin to wrap
around their hat, or to make into a
belt, or a rattle for their babies to
play with, Martin was the man to see.
One Sunday, towards the end of summer, Martin
returned to the bluff like he had done
many times before.
As the sun rose, he began to play
a soft waltz on his fiddle.
Once again, the rattlesnakes wiggled out from underneath
the rocks and listened, swaying back and forth
to the music.
Martin stopped playing, reached for his shotgun, then
stopped.
Something in the snake's eyes caught his attention.
On his previous trips, the snake's black eyes
seemed to glaze over from the soft, gentle
notes of his fiddle.
But today, the snakes glared at Martin with
fiery red eyes, burning with intense hatred.
Martin was hypnotized in their glare.
As hard as he tried, he couldn't reach
for his gun.
The snakes surrounded Martin, and one by one,
they began crawling up inside his pants leg.
Martin was frozen with terror as he felt
their scaly bodies wriggle around his legs, his
chest, and his arms.
All at once, the snakes started biting, their
sharp fangs ripping into Martin's flesh.
As their icy venom flowed through his veins,
all Martin could do was scream.
A horrifying scream that resounded throughout the valley.
A few days later, a search party found
Martin's lifeless body sprawled across the overhang, his
fiddle by his side.
They looked with horror at the bite marks
that covered his skin.
Even more of a mystery, though, was the
loaded shotgun leaning against the rock, well within
Martin's reach.
Why hadn't he tried to defend himself?
To this day, some Johnson County residents refuse
to climb to the rocky overhang at the
top of Stone Mountain, which they now call
Fiddler's Rock.
For in the lazy summer months, when the
sun rises over the hills, they say you
can hear the faint notes of a fiddle,
followed by a high-pitched screeching sound.
The scream of Martin's stone as the snakes
take their revenge.
That concludes this tale from The Moonlit Road.
Be sure to visit our website at themoonlitroad
.com to find out more about our stories
and let us know how we're doing.
The Moonlit Road is produced and directed by
Craig Dominey, recorded and soundscaped by Henry Howard
in beautiful Stone Mountain, Georgia.
Thanks for listening, and we'll see you next
time.
Peace.