The Crossroads have been used so much in fiction, that people have quit taking it seriously. Just like parents read their children funny stories about friendly werewolves, and vampire children who become a child's friend, or a sea monster that a boy keeps in his tub.
The Grimm's Brothers knew better, and related tales they had heard passed down through antiquity. And they knew damn well they were true. The woods are lovely, dark and deep, and you had best keep your ass on the path. Or else...
He waited at his own crossroads, and the shadows grew long, then went away, and the stars came out. Had he been in Europe, at some point in the past, gibbets would have adorned each corner of the crossroad, and the prisoners chewed their own flesh while they starved, and then they would have consecrated the unholy ground with their own shit, as they went mad, and then collapsed in their cage, and the ravens would come fight over their living flesh.
Where he waited now was a place where slave-masters had hung runaway slaves as they caught them. A hanged man will spunk as he dies, and they would have their foremen pull down the slaves pants, and the Aristocrat Landowners would place bets on how far out into the dry dirt of the road the spunk would fly.
He stood at the most notorious crossroads of all, where Robert Johnson was thought to have sold his soul to become the finest guitar player in the world. A crossroads in the deepest of the deep south.And each crossroads has a demon that waits. Does nothing but...
To be continued?