Did bluesman Robert Johnson sell his soul to the Devil himself? That is the legend of the crossroads and we explore it on this edition of Unpleasant Dreams. — Cassandra Harold is your host. EM Hilker is our principal writer and researcher with additional writing by Cassandra Harold. Jim Harold is our Executive Producer. Unpleasant Dreams is a production of Jim Harold Media. You can find the original article by EM Hilker HERE MUSIC Noé Socha (Simple Blues Boy) via Premium Beat SOURCES AND FURTHER READING Belard, Angelie. Hoodoo for Beginners: Working Magic Spells in Rootwork and Conjure with Roots, Herbs, Candles, and Oils. Hentopan Publishing, 2020.  Butler, J. M. “Crossroads myth.” Mississippi Encyclopedia. 4 March, 2019. Accessed 25 September 2021. Conforth, Bruce M., and Gayle Wardlow. Up Jumped the Devil: The Real Life of Robert Johnson. Chicago Review Press Incorporated, 2019.  Graves, Tom. Crossroads: the Life and Afterlife of Blues Legend Robert Johnson. Rhythm Oil Publications, 2012.  Lewis, John. “Robert Johnson Sells His Soul to the Devil.” The Guardian. Guardian News and Media, 15 June 2011. Accessed 25 September 2021. Oakes, Brian, director. Devil at the Crossroads, Netflix Remastered, 2019. Accessed 25 September 2021.  Quinn, Shannon. “18 People Who Allegedly Sold Their Soul to Pure Evil.” HistoryCollection.com. 28 September 2018. Accessed 25 September 2021. Roberts, Maddy Shaw. “Niccolò Paganini Was Such a Gifted Violinist, People Thought He Sold His Soul to the Devil.” Classic FM. Classic FM, 1 Feb. 2019. Accessed 25 September 2021. Rolling Stone. “The 27 Club: A Brief History.” Rolling Stone. 8 December 2019. Accessed 25 September 2021. Yronwode, Catherine. “Foot-Track Magic.” Foot-Track Magic in the Hoodoo Tradition. Accessed 25 September 2021. PODCAST TRANSCRIPT It’s an old, old story. The shadowed, dusty crossroads sit lonely in the sultry, oppressive summer night, seemingly waiting for the young Black man who now arrives. He holds a guitar in one hand and a mostly empty bottle of whiskey in the other. He does not stumble as he walks, but looks about warily as he slowly approaches, his misgivings chasing each other across his handsome face. The crossroads are lit only by the dull glow   cast off from the sickle of light shining in the dark sky, gleaming almost bronze through the thick humidity. It is enough. He can see that he’s alone. As midnight comes upon him, he feels a change, as of movement. It’s not a smell or a sound or something he can name. His skin, already slick with the sweat of the hot night, feels clammy and a shiver thrills through his body. With his intentions, in this place, he has already crossed a threshold. And he can feel it. A figure bulks in the darkness at the crossroads now, broad as a thoroughbred and so, so tall. The young man can’t see his features, can’t even see if it’s truly a man, but he can see a wicked, white smile. He didn’t see him arrive, didn’t hear a footstep or feel a wisp of breeze. This is the right man. He is in the right place. He clears his throat, tightens his hold on the guitar, and steps forward.... For a full podcast transcript go to the post at jimharold.com HERE