Recently, Kirsten and I caught the new Netflix documentary Devil at the Crossroads about the life of Blues legend Robert Johnson.
In June of 2004 I had to attend a class at Keesler Air Force Base, Mississippi for four weeks. Keesler is located on the Gulf Coast in Biloxi, Mississippi right down the road from Gulfport – a very popular vacation spot.
My weekends were free and I spent my time going for runs on the boardwalk, swimming in the ocean, playing some classical pieces on my guitar, catching up on reading, and writing a story churning around in my head. But one particular weekend a series of strange occurrences beset me and left me with a rather bizarre story to tell.
Friday after class I returned to my hotel room a little tired and decided to take a nap before dinner. During this nap I had the strangest dream. I was driving in a big convertible Cadillac down a country road when I came upon a black man running down the side of the road. As I approached he turned and I could see terror sprawled on his face. His wide eyes saw me and he thrust his thumb in the air indicating he needed a ride. I slowed down and noticed in his other hand he was carrying a worn guitar case. I stopped to pick up the man and he removed his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow as he hurriedly climbed in. He thanked me and introduced himself as Robert. I started driving again and I noticed he kept turning to look nervously behind us as we drove and made small talk. Obviously something was after him and he kept searching to see if it was behind us. Finally, as we passed a sign which said Union Church, the dream ended with a large dog racing into the road ahead of us. As I slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting the animal he screamed something about the hellhound.
I awoke from this dream with a start and was momentarily confused as to where I was. As I regained my bearings I thought about the dream. The dream was easily interpreted as a meeting with Robert Johnson, the infamous blues guitarist and native of Mississippi. It struck me as a strangely vivid dream and my thoughts kept returning to the story of how Robert Johnson had supposedly met the Devil at a crossroads near Clarksdale or Rosedale in order to make a deal with Satan. Supposedly he had traded his soul for fame – it was an old myth which had been retold many times, in many different forms. The story of Faust and Paganini were probably the most famous versions; but the Robert Johnson story had spawned similar stories about the members of Led Zeppelin and was recounted by other artists including Charlie Daniels. There was even a movie made in the eighties called “Crossroads” about the legend in which the protagonist avoids losing his soul by playing an arrangement of a Paganini violin caprice on the guitar.
I went to get some dinner and thought more and more about the story of Robert Johnson. The details were sketchy but the legend had prevailed. Johnson had been an untalented blues guitarist who hung out with notable bluesmen Willie Brown, Charlie Patton, and Son House. He left Robinsonville and returned home to Hazlehurst where he met Ike Zinnerman. Zinnerman, an Alabama native like me, used to proclaim he had learned to play guitar by sitting on a tombstone in an old graveyard late at night. Most people believe it was under Zinnerman’s tutelage Johnson became such a good guitarist.
But rumors began to spring up it wasn’t Zinnerman at all which caused Johnson to become so suddenly good. When Johnson returned to Robinsonville his old idols took notice of his marked improvement and Son House began to tell of how Robert had met Satan down at an old crossroads in order to sell his soul in exchange for his blues playing abilities.
Robert himself never denied this rumor and, in fact, wrote several songs such as “Me and the Devil Blues”, “Hellhound on My Trail”, and “Cross Road Blues” that seemed to confirm the story.
Supposedly, according to another blues guitarist named Tommy Johnson, a person wishing to make such a deal with the Devil would sit at the crossroads about midnight and play their guitar until a strange black figure would arrive. This black figure would, of course, be Satan himself. Satan would take the person’s guitar, tune it, and give it back. This would be the end of the deal and the person would suddenly possess supernatural skill and whatever fame and fortune they so desired. But in all such tales there is never a satisfactory end and the poor individual who pays their soul usually is haunted by tragedy and pain. In the case of Robert Johnson, he died of poisoning from one of two possible people in a jealous love triangle only a few years after tasting a little of the enormous fame he now possesses.
Just where this notorious and mystical crossroads is, is also a matter of some speculation. Most accounts place it somewhere around Clarksdale and Rosedale in the northwestern corner of Mississippi. But this doesn’t really seem to fit with Johnson’s sojourn back to his hometown of Hazlehurst. Something in my dream kept gnawing at me. It was the place name of Union Church – I had never heard of this place before in my life.
After eating I returned to my room and proceeded to peruse the road atlas of Mississippi. I quickly found the cities of Clarksdale and Rosedale. It took me a few more minutes to locate Hazlehurst off of I-55 and Highway 28. And then I saw something which gave me a little bit of a shock – southwest of Hazlehurst was a town called Union Church!
Suddenly, the sign in my dream flashed back into my mind and I could see there was a number alongside the name of Union Church and the number was nine. I looked at the map and calculated nine miles outside of Union Church coming from Hazlehurst would place the location of where the hellhound stopped the car in my dream inside of the Homochitto National Forest at the crossroads of Highway 28 and Highway 547. For several moments I sat in bewilderment wondering what the dream could mean. The similarity of the dream to the map was eerily accurate.
The dream and my following discovery on the map kept buzzing around in my head. As I sat in my hotel room and strummed on my guitar I wondered how long it would take to get to the Homochitto National Forest. I sat down with the map again and did a rough calculation of approximately 180 miles. If I drove 60 miles per hour from Gulfport to Highway 28 and then 50 miles per hour on the smaller highway till I reached the forest, I concluded I should be able to make the trip in four hours pretty easily. I looked at the clock and it was almost 6:30 p.m. That would put me at the crossroads this very night at around 10:30 p.m. Plenty of time to make it before midnight.
Before I had time to question the absurdity of my actions I had grabbed a few articles of clothing, some toiletries, the road atlas, and my guitar and was pulling out onto I-90 from Biloxi to Gulfport.
As I drove the two-door rental car along the coast I pondered just what it was I was hoping to achieve on this trip. Would I really meet someone claiming to be Satan at the crossroads? If I did have a chance to trade my soul for fame, fortune, and guitar virtuosity, would I do it? I used to dream of being a well known guitarist but that had faded over the years. While I still enjoyed music and worked hard at improving my playing, I really had no desire to be known for my playing ability. I still entertained dreams of being known for my compositional ability on the classical guitar but that too was secondary to my real passion – writing. If I had to choose what posterity would remember me for it would be as an author of short horror and weird fiction. Now, if I had the chance to trade my soul for fame, fortune, and writing virtuosity, I would definitely do it. That’s how badly I wanted to be a well known author.
I recall the drive very well. I grappled with the urge to smoke on the drive is why. I used to be a very unusual smoker. I never really was a true smoker by any stretch. I never smoked during the day for one. When I did smoke was when I had a few beers in the evening. I would smoke when really bored or when stressed out about something, too. I always exercised fairly regular to ward off the bad effects of smoking so I didn’t really over worry about my habit. I did want to quit completely because I knew it was unhealthy. I had been doing pretty well on the trip so far at quitting but the drive was really boring. Finally, I gave in to my desires and stopped to buy a pack of smokes. After having the first wonderful cigarette I cursed my weakness and vowed to quit after I finished the pack. I had done it many times before but this time it really stuck in my memory. You’ll understand why in a moment; but first, let me tell the rest.
It was about 9:45 when I reached Hazlehurst. I briefly entertained the idea of stopping and seeing one of the town’s Robert Johnson tourist attractions but decided it would take too long. No, I was being driven by an inexplicable force and my only concern was my dream-revealed destination.
The rest of the drive was over quickly and I soon was entering the Homochitto National Forest. The crossroads was immediately inside the forest and before I realized it I was upon the Highway 547 sign. I stopped quickly and pulled over on the shoulder of the road staring at the sign which said Union Church was nine miles down the road. I looked at my watch and it read 10:27 p.m. I sat for a few minutes and smoked another cigarette. The traffic on Highway 28 was light – only an occasional car passed by.
I waited until there was no traffic coming in any direction and then I retrieved my guitar from the back seat and found a spot to sit. It was a nice night – hot but clear. A slight wind blew from the west which served to make the heat at least tolerable. It was fairly dark but I could see well enough to find a dead log at the edge of the woods on which to sit. I was close enough to the road to see it but hidden enough where passing cars wouldn’t notice me.
I opened my guitar case and pulled out my guitar. I felt a little weird about the whole affair but I thought it would at least make for a good story to tell my friends. At first I started playing some blues licks but I felt the need to play something a little more challenging. So then I started playing Paganini’s Caprice No. 24 for the Guitar. This was a rather difficult piece I had been working on recently and it somehow seemed appropriate at the time.
I played this piece and then played a few others then took a break to smoke another cigarette. Then I got up and walked around for several minutes and returned to the log to sit and wait.
It was getting close to 11:30 and I was growing bored of this whole ordeal. I decided to play the Paganini piece one more time before calling it a night. My attention was completely focused on my guitar when a voice made me jump and scared me so bad I dropped my guitar as I rose and retreated from the voice.
“Whatchoo doin’ out here this late at night, boy?” I recovered enough to regard an old black man standing at the edge of the road about 20 or 30 yards away.
I really didn’t know what to say in reply so I made up a lie. “I’m just passing through and was getting sleepy at the wheel so I stopped to get some fresh air and wake up a bit before continuing on.” Was this really the Devil coming to make a deal with me? The old man sure didn’t look like the Devil to me.
“What kinda music you playin’?” he asked walking a bit closer.
“Oh, it’s classical music,” I said by way of explanation.
“Uh huh,” he mumbled as if not really caring.
“What are you doing out here this late?” I asked.
“On my way home. My name’s Esau,” he said.
I introduced myself as I walked over to meet him and shake his hand. “Do you want to tune my guitar?” I couldn’t believe the words came out of my mouth as I spoke them. It sounded so ridiculous and I cursed myself before I had even finished the sentence.
“Tune your guitar?” he said in confusion. “Tune your own damn guitar, boy. I don’t know how to play no guitar.”
“I’m sorry,” I said uncomfortably. I produced a cigarette and lit it.
“Mind if I get a smoke from ya?” he asked.
“Not at all,” I said offering the pack and my lighter to him. He took a cigarette and lit it, took a long drag, and made a face as if he were relishing the taste.
After a moment he looked at me and said, “Well, I guess I best me moseyin’ along.”
“Yeah, me too,” I said. I remember thinking if he were the Devil then he sure didn’t make me feel scared; and he sure didn’t seem to care about making any kind of deal for my soul.
“Well, it was nice meetin’ ya,” he said as he headed back to the road.
“Nice meeting you too,” I returned. I picked up my guitar and began putting it back in its case. He made one last comment before getting too far out of earshot which completely changed the harmless little encounter into something I swear made me think he was actually the Devil.
“Thanks for the smoke, boy. I’ll settle up with you when I see you again.” This last comment struck me as so strange I couldn’t formulate a response. Before I realized it, he had disappeared into the darkness.
You might well think this chance encounter was just a coincidence and his comment at the end meant nothing at all. I would’ve dismissed it too if the story had ended there. But it didn’t.
I had planned on spending the night in my car and heading back to Biloxi the next morning but I was too rattled to sleep – especially at the crossroads. So I drove back that night. I had pretty much convinced myself my imagination was running wild trying to attach some weird meaning to an otherwise harmless encounter by the time I reached Hattiesburg.
I smoked as I drove and promised myself that after this pack was finished, I would quit again. The pack was getting low and just after I went through Gulfport I pulled the last cigarette out of the pack and nearly had a wreck at what I beheld. The cigarette was a solid black cigarette with one white marking on the side – a skull and crossbones.
I had to pull over to the side of the road to catch my breath. My heart was thundering inside my chest. My mind reeled at the meaning of the cigarette and just how it could’ve gotten in the pack. Did the old black man use some slight of hands or was he really the Devil?
It took me several minutes to regain my composure. I drove back to my hotel room and sat on my bed looking at the cigarette wondering what to make of it.
Finally, I decided it was the Devil I had met and he knew it wasn’t virtuosity on the guitar I wanted. No, he knew it was virtuosity in writing I desired. That was my passion; my weakness. I also knew the deal would be made if I smoked the black cigarette.
I can’t say how long I sat there struggling over whether or not to smoke the black cigarette. I won’t tell you what I finally did but one day you’ll know…one day, you’ll know.
Visions of the Dark 