Growing up in the Mississippi Delta, I heard plenty of stories about the Crossroads.

My grandma used to tell me about folks who went there looking for favors, whispering their wishes into the night under a full moon. Some walked away with riches. Some never walked away at all.

"The Crossroads ain't just dirt and gravel," she'd say. "It's where the dead listen. Where they wait."

But I wasn't one to believe in ghost stories.

I was a builder, a contractor, the kind of man who dealt with concrete and steel, not folklore and curses.

So when the state approved a new highway that would cut straight through the old Crossroads, I didn't hesitate. I put in my bid, got the job, and set up shop without a second thought.

The locals weren't happy. They warned me about the land, about what I was disturbing. But money talks. And ghosts don't exist.

At least, that's what I thought.

Until the machines started breaking down.

Until the sky turned black in the middle of the day.

Until we heard the laughter.

The night before construction started, Henry, my oldest worker, knocked on my office door.

Henry was a local, born and raised in the Delta, and he carried the weight of those old stories in his bones. He was loyal, hardworking—but he believed in things I didn't.

That night, he stepped inside, clutching a worn-out Bible in his rough hands.

"Boss, You know what they say about that land, right?" he said, voice low. 

I leaned back in my chair, sighing. "Let me guess. More ghost stories?"

Henry didn't smile. He looked around the room like he didn't want anyone else to hear what he was about to say.

"This ain't no story," he muttered. "The Crossroads Spirit is real. And he doesn't like being disturbed."

I let out a short laugh, shaking my head. "Henry, we're building a road, not summoning demons."

But he just tightened his grip on that old Bible.

"I know you don't believe me, but I do. My granddaddy told me—folks used to come to that very spot, right where we're diggin', to make deals with something... not human. You can't just tear through that land like it's nothin'. It's sacred."

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to be patient. "Look, I respect tradition, but this is just dirt and trees. There's no such thing as spirits."

Henry stared at me for a long moment, then shook his head.

"You might not mean to disturb it, But the dead don't care about your intentions."

And with that, he walked out, leaving the air thick with something I couldn't explain.

That night, I barely slept.

We started clearing land the next morning.

It was hot as hell, the kind of heat that clung to your skin and made the air feel thick. The crew worked fast, tearing up the old dirt roads, getting ready to lay the foundation for the new highway.

By noon, the first machine failed.

One of the bulldozers just stopped—engine dead, no warning. The mechanics checked it out, but nothing was wrong. It should've been running just fine.

Then the second one died.

Then the third.

By mid-afternoon, we had five broken machines, a restless crew, and a sky that had gone dark as dusk—even though the forecast had called for clear skies.

That's when the wind picked up.

A low, howling wind, circling the Crossroads, stirring up dust like a storm was coming.

The crew started murmuring. Some of them refused to keep working. I caught Henry watching me, his face pale.

He walked up, voice firm.

"We need to stop. We need to make an offering."

I scoffed. "An offering? To what?"

Henry didn't blink. "The Spirit."

I looked around. Some of the other workers nodded in agreement, their eyes full of something close to fear.

I exhaled sharply. If I gave in to this, I'd lose control of the project. I couldn't afford that.

"We keep working, there's no damn spirit."

The moment the words left my mouth, the ground rumbled.

At first, I thought it was an earthquake.

Then I heard it.

Laughter.

Low. Deep. Coming from everywhere.

The crew scattered—some running for their trucks, others dropping tools and taking off into the woods.

I stood frozen as the laughter grew louder, wrapping around me like a suffocating fog.

Then the dust cleared.

And he was there.

A tall figure stood at the center of the Crossroads, dressed in a long black coat, a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his face. His red eyes burned through the darkness like smoldering coals.

In one hand, he held a cane, tapping it rhythmically against the ground.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Each sound sent a shudder through the earth.

My breath caught in my throat.

This was not a man.

This was something older.

Something ancient.

"You've come to my Crossroads, and you haven't paid your respects."

I tried to speak, but my mouth was dry.

I wanted to run.

But I couldn't move.

The Crossroads Spirit took a slow step forward, tilting his head like he was studying me.

"You've taken from this land, Now it will take from you."

The ground cracked open beneath me.

I stumbled back, heart hammering, watching as deep fractures spread through the dirt, like the earth itself, was ready to swallow me whole.

"Wait—" I gasped. "I didn't mean—"

He raised his cane, and the wind roared.

"You owe a debt."

I couldn't move.

I felt like the air had turned solid around me, pressing against my chest, making it hard to breathe. The weight of his words crushed me, heavy like a coffin lid sealing shut.

The sky churned, thick black clouds rolling overhead. The air crackled like the moment before a storm. My mind scrambled for something, anything, that made sense—but none of this was supposed to be real.

I didn't believe in ghosts. I didn't believe in curses. But right then? I had no choice but to believe.

The ground trembled beneath me.

Slow at first. A gentle shake. Then stronger. Cracks slithered across the dirt, spreading outward from where the Spirit stood.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound of his cane striking the earth echoed inside my skull. Each tap made the cracks grow wider, made the ground beneath me shift, like it was waking up.

Like it was hungry.

"You can't just take me," I blurted, my voice shaking. "I didn't know. I didn't make any deals."

The Spirit tilted his head like he was considering my words. His glowing red eyes never blinked, never wavered. The tapping of his cane paused.

"The Crossroads isn't about deals you know about, It's about respect. You step onto this land, you owe it something. Always."

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as dust.

The workers had fled. The machines had broken down. The land itself had turned against me.

And now, I was standing alone at the mercy of something I'd laughed off as a myth.

I licked my lips, desperate. "I—I can fix this," I stammered. "What do you want? I'll make it right."

The Spirit didn't move, didn't blink. But I could feel his amusement, like a cold wind curling around my skin. He stepped closer, and my whole body seized up, frozen.

The cold coming off him wasn't normal. It wasn't the chill of night air.

It was the cold of the grave.

"There's no bargaining with the Crossroads, boy, you disturbed the balance. Now, the balance must be restored."

I staggered back, legs shaking.

The ground groaned beneath me, like something deep below was shifting, getting ready to pull me under. I turned my head, searching for any escape—but I knew.

I knew it was too late.

The Spirit raised his cane.

The wind howled, a force so strong it nearly knocked me off my feet. Dirt and debris whipped through the air. The sky, once just overcast, had turned black as ink.

And then came the laughter.

It came from everywhere, from nowhere.

Low. Deep. Mocking.

The ground split open beneath my feet.

"You've taken from this land," the Spirit said, voice rising like a storm. "Now, it will take from you."

The dirt crumbled. The cracks widened.

And I felt it—the pull.

Like unseen hands wrapping around my ankles, yanking me down. The earth wasn't just breaking—it was opening, like a mouth getting ready to swallow me whole.

I tried to run. Tried to fight.

But the pull was too strong.

Just as I felt myself slipping under, everything stopped.

The wind died. The cracks froze in place. The Spirit lowered his cane.

A moment of stillness.

I gasped for breath, hands trembling, my heart slamming against my ribs like a trapped animal. For a second, I thought... maybe I'd been spared.

But then, he spoke again.

"You've been warned."

His voice was softer now, but no less terrifying.

"Leave this place. And never return."

I didn't need to be told twice.

I turned and ran, stumbling over my own feet, dirt kicking up behind me. I didn't care where I was going—as long as it was away from him.

I ran and didn't look back.

Days Later

I never went back to the worksite.

The project was shut down. The company sent new guys to check out the land, and I knew exactly what they'd say:

"Just a coincidence." "Just mechanical failures." "Just paranoia."

They didn't believe me.

Hell, I barely believed it myself.

But when I closed my eyes, I could still hear the laughter.

Months Later

By the time summer faded into fall, I had convinced myself that the nightmare was over.

The company moved on. The project was abandoned.

And life... life was supposed to go back to normal.

But it didn't.

It started with small things.

My truck broke down—right at the intersection of two old dirt roads.

The lights in my house flickered—always at midnight.

And the dreams...

Every night, I was back at the Crossroads. Standing there. Alone.

And he was watching me.

Always watching.

Those red eyes, glowing in the dark. The cane tapping against the ground.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

In the dreams, I couldn't move.

I could only stand there, frozen, as he slowly approached.

And just as his hand reached for me—

I'd wake up.

Heart pounding. Drenched in sweat.

But the dreams never stopped.

And each time, inched closer.

It was late November when I finally broke.

The whispers, the shadows, the feeling of being watched—it was too much.

I had to go back.

I had to face him.

Or I'd never be free.

So I drove out to the Crossroads, past midnight, headlights barely cutting through the mist. The road was empty. Silent.

But the moment I stepped out of the truck—

I knew I wasn't alone.

The air was heavy, thick like a storm rolling in.

And then—

I felt him.

The cold. The stillness.

I turned slowly.

And there he was.

Standing exactly where I had first seen him.

The Crossroads Spirit.

His red eyes burned through the night. The shadows clung to him, shifting like they were alive.

He didn't speak.

Didn't move.

Just waited.

I swallowed hard. My voice came out hoarse.

"I'm here."

His eyes narrowed.

"You owe a debt."

The ground rumbled beneath me.

I tried to speak, to explain, to beg—but the Spirit simply raised his cane.

The earth cracked. The wind roared.

I braced myself, knowing—this was it.

But then—

Everything stopped.

The Spirit lowered his cane. The wind died.

His glowing eyes studied me.

And for the first time, I saw something other than rage.

Understanding.

"You came back, you've shown respect."

I nodded, barely breathing.

The Spirit took a step back. The shadows swirled around him.

"Leave"

His voice was quiet now, but I heard the warning clear as day.

"And never return."

I backed away slowly, heart hammering, then turned and bolted to my truck.

I didn't look back.

Didn't stop driving.

And I never went near those roads again.

But some nights...

I still hear the sound.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A reminder

The Crossroads never forgets.

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Copyright © 2025. The Wrath of the Crossroads Spirit by Mohamed Elshenawy