The Devil at the Crossroads: Where Law & Folklore Meet

There's something uncanny about a crossroads.

For centuries, crossroads have held a magnetic place in human imagination. They’re not just places where roads intersect — they’re liminal places where the veil between worlds thins. A boundary. A choice. A trap.

Crossroads are place of law and folklore — where justice was served, ghosts are said to wander and deals with the devil might just change your life... or end it (we’re casting a knowing wink at Supernatural, Season 2 Episode 8).

A Stage for Justice and Shame

Crossroads weren’t just for burials. They were also places of execution.

Some of the most infamous English gallows stood at crossroads — permanent reminders that justice was watching. In Bodmin there is a high hill overlooking the prison known as Five Lanes or Five Ways. This was the location were the main turnpikes to Truro, Liskeard and Wadebrigde converged; it was also the location of the Bodmin Gibbet, also known as the three-legged mare. By 1802 hangings were taking place in front of the prison until 1868 when they moved within the jail.

Enter the Devil: A Bluesman at Midnight

Fast forward to early 20th-century Mississippi, and a new kind of crossroads legend is born. This time, it’s not about burials — it’s about bargains.

Robert Johnson, a struggling musician from the Mississippi Delta, was good — but not great. Then, suddenly, his talent exploded. He played guitar like no one had ever heard before, with haunting slide technique, raw power, and eerie lyrics about hellhounds and judgment day.

According to folklore, Johnson went to a crossroads at midnight, where he was met by a tall stranger — the Devil himself. The Devil tuned his guitar, handed it back, and in return, took Johnson’s soul.

🎶 “I went down to the crossroads, fell down on my knees…” — Robert Johnson, “Cross Road Blues”

Johnson’s story became legend not just because of his music, but because of the mystique. He died young — at just 27 — under mysterious circumstances, fuelling the myth even more.

Today, many still visit the supposed crossroads near Clarksdale, Mississippi, marked by a kitschy sign and a deep sense of something ancient beneath the asphalt.