In any event, Mr. Johnson elicits the smile he'd been hoping for and drops his eyes back down to his guitar until a howling growl invades the joint from the piney woods outside. Mr. Johnson falters for a second, but quickly picks back up where he'd left off until more howling growls -- this time, almost as if they're coming from an entire pack of rabid dogs -- assault his ears. The Kindhearted Woman glances around nervously on his behalf, but none of the other patrons seem to notice anything untoward. She throws all of her focus back onto him, and Mr. Johnson attempts to make it the rest of the way through the tune. Unfortunately for him, a suddenly appearing shadow shoots across the tattered cloth passing as drapes on the small windows in the wall and the door, and Mr. Johnson fingers betray him. The song comes to an abrupt halt as Mr. Johnson eyes the shadow's progress around the building until it darts over to the window closest the tiny stage upon which he sits. Startled, Mr. Johnson gapes a bit, and the cigarette drops from his lips to bounce on the planks at his feet. He swings his head around to gaze with increasing panic on the other people in the room, but again, no one else seems to notice anything odd. One woman tensely pivots in her chair to shoot a pair of worried eyes at The Kindhearted Woman as the growls and the howls and the yapping ramp up in volume. Mr. Johnson rises shakily to his feet and hops off the stage to stumble out the back door. The Kindhearted Woman leaps out of her seat to follow.
Outside, Mr. Johnson speed-walks down a tree-lined, moonlit path with his guitar until the infernal barking rises up again, seeming to attack him from every direction at once. Something very nearby causes the bushes at his heel to shake, and Mr. Johnson promptly loses whatever little cool he had remaining. He drops the guitar onto the gravel path, where it jangles discordantly as he tears off in a run away from the demonically canine presence that'd been tracking him.
Somewhere else, he slams through a cabin's door and rams the thing shut behind him, fumbling a bit with the latch. Suddenly, the demon dog outside hurls itself against the wood, and Mr. Johnson futilely jams a chair underneath the knob before backing away into the middle of the room, where he sinks to his knees with an anguished expression of hopelessness washing across his face. The battering and barking increase in violence and volume until the door bursts open to reveal...The Kindhearted Woman with two gentlemen whose aid she'd enlisted! "What's going on?" one of those gentlemen murmurs, while Mr. Johnson descends into some sort of epileptic fit on the floor. "Oh, my God," moans The Kindhearted Woman. "Get a doctor!" she orders while racing to Mr. Johnson's side to ease him onto his back and loosen his tie. "Run!" she screams, and the two gentlemen book back outside. "What happened?" she pleads, holding Mr. Johnson's shuddering face in her still-gloved hands. "Talk to me!" "Dogs," Mr. Johnson manages to mutter. "Black dogs!" "Robert, don't you die on me!" The Kindhearted Woman yells. During all of this, the small silver cross she wears on a chain around her neck has fallen free of the bodice of her dress to dangle in front of his face, and his dying eyes focus on it glinting in the low light of the cabin's main room until his entire body goes slack. The closing chords of "Crossroad Blues" hit the soundtrack as his eyes glaze over, and this is how Supernatural would have us believe Robert Johnson died on the evening of August 16, 1938, in Greenwood, Mississippi.