I’m sure you have all heard of the Appalachian Rules:

 If you see something, no, you didn’t.

If you hear something, no, you didn’t.

 If something whistles at you, you don’t whistle back.

But what happens if you ignore the rules? What will happen if you whistle back or interact with the so-called “wildlife” in the Appalachian Mountains? This is the story of Fiddler’s Rock in Johnson County, Tennessee.

The legend tells of a talented fiddle player, Martin Stone, who traveled all over the Appalachian Mountains playing his music for weddings, funerals, and church services—but only if you had the money to earn it. Along with playing for people’s entertainment, Martin often went up on the ridge to play for the great outdoors.

One day, Martin took his fiddle and himself up to that ridge and started playing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a group of rattlesnakes. Well, the rattlesnakes seemed just as enthralled by Martin’s music as the townsfolk were. The rattlesnakes swayed their ice-cold bodies to the rhythm of his fiddle, almost like they were dancing. The only thing Martin loved more than playing music was making money, and rattlesnake skin went for a pretty penny back in those days. So, Martin pulled out his pistol and shot down every one of those rattlesnakes so that he could sell their skins. After Martin admired his kills, he packed them up and took them back down the ridge to his home to start making the rattlesnake hides, which gained him plenty of popularity around town. That became his craft: hypnotizing snakes and selling their flesh to anyone he could.

On the night of his death, Martin went up on the ridge and played his music in order to attract his next paycheck, but lo and behold, the rattlesnakes had caught on to his little game. As he played, the snakes kept getting closer and closer, glowing red eyes focused straight on their target. The tables had turned; Martin was hypnotized—or rather, paralyzed with fear—and he didn’t get the opportunity to grab his pistol and take them down before they got to him first. The snakes wrapped him up from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head, biting him and flooding his body with venom, getting their vengeance on the man who tried his hardest to profit off their bodies.

Martin’s screams could be heard all the way down the ridge and into town, but no one could place exactly where they were coming from. The next morning, the townsfolk sent out a search party for Martin after he missed an event he was meant to play at. When the search party made it to the ridge, they were met with the gruesome sight of Martin’s body, stone cold, with his fiddle still in his hand.

The legend says that to this day, if you go up to Stone Mountain in Johnson County right before the sun sets and listen real close, you can still hear Martin Stone playing his fiddle, waiting for the rattlesnakes to bring in his next dollar.

Edited and Reviewed by Kien Powell