Thomas Doty – Storyteller
The Ghost of Fiddler's Green
Near sunset, October grass is brown at Fiddler's Green. The spring is dry, and dry wind whistles down the ridge toward Clear Lake.
Last century, a man built a cabin here, ordered a fiddle-playing, mail-order bride, and they lived happily until the woman was murdered by robbers and her body thrown into the spring. The woman's ghost has been seen many nights rising out of the spring and playing her fiddle.
At sunset I'm thinking it's time to head home. Perhaps I'll return some night and wait for the ghost. For now I'm happy to walk the brown grass past the ruins of the cabin, past the dry spring, listening to the music of the evening wind.
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