The Crossroads

It was late in the evening. The sun was now trying to hide behind the mountains as the moon slowly began to rise. He was tired; he had been visiting pubs all day, looking for a job. He was a worn-out folk guitarist with an old guitar that had been passed down from his grandfather. Although he was not a maestro on the guitar, he could still manage to play a few good melodies. He was rejected by every pub he went into. He felt miserable; he was broke, his long-time partner had left him the other day, and his parents were dead. He decided to head home after a long day of failure and misery. The sun was almost swallowed whole by the mountains.   
He came to a crossroads in the middle of a giant field, and then he saw her — a woman dressed in black, with dark black hair being carried by the west wind. She had an unusual paleness to her skin, which glistened in the dusky atmosphere. She slowly walked towards him, and without another word, she told him, “Play me something, I’m tired.” He could not see her face because she was looking down, and her thick hair covered her obscured features.   
The man was confused, yet he grabbed his old guitar out of its case and started to play the old American folk song, “In the Pines.” The wind started to blow swiftly, and the dead crops in the field seemed to dance to the haunting rhythm of his rusted steel strings. After a few minutes, the song was over. The woman gave a slight chuckle and said in a cold, raspy voice, “You know, my father had a guitar like yours. That old bastard is dead now — I killed him.”   
He was bewildered and shocked by this statement, yet he could not speak, no matter how hard he tried. Then she came closer to him, her face still turned downward, and she whispered in his left ear, “Don’t worry, it’ll all be over soon.” Then she kissed him on his left cheek; her lips were cold and almost felt dead when they met his skin. Then she left without another word. He looked back to see her disappear down the road. He did not question it; he was not afraid — he was just in shock.   
He hurried home, had his supper, and started to record his own song using an old tape recorder he had. Then he calmly went to bed. The next day, he was not seen or heard from in the town.   
After a few days, the townsmen came to his house to look for him. They found his head replaced with the headstock of his old guitar, and his hands were holding the instrument, with his right hand forming what looked to be an E minor chord on his bloodied chest. No signs of a struggle or a murder weapon were found. Then a young man who came along with the townsmen found his old tape recorder with his one song. The young man listened to the tune and gave it to the local radio. The song, which they called “Black Beauty of the Crossroads,” instantly brought the dead man posthumous fame.   
Written by Chirana Thanthirige