The Devil’s Lane: A Twilight Walk with Earl Marlowe

"It's right in the bloody bones of Clerkenwell. A processional path to meet Old Nick himself..."

London, 1991. Clerkenwell. The Second Summer of Love was still humming in the air, ecstasy and breakbeats pulsing through disused warehouses. But on this night, I wasn’t going raving. I was heading into the shadows, on a pilgrimage of the crooked path.

Earl Marlowe was the one who brought it up. We were sitting in a greasy spoon off City Road — him sipping black coffee like it was molasses, me nursing a hangover. He leaned in with that half-smile, half-sneer he always had when something important was coming.

“You ever heard of Devil’s Lane, boy? No? You should’ve. It's right in the bloody bones of Clerkenwell. A processional path to meet Old Nick himself. Medieval rite. Real as your hangover. Tonight, we walk it.”

This was classic Earl. A hoodoo conjureman from Trinidad, part bluesman, part trickster. He’d schooled me in spells, sigils, and sweet-potato mojo. But he was also tapped into something deeper — chaos frequencies, cultural drift, psychic geography. He could read the psychic contours of a place like most read bus timetables.

That evening we met by the old well of the Clerks — Clerkenwell Green. Twilight was descending, and the air had that metallic scent of rain withheld. Earl had a cane and a wide-brimmed hat. He looked like he’d stepped out of a 1930s Mississippi juke joint.

“England,” he said as we walked, “was always of the Devil’s party. That never change. America, now, they got the black folk. They remembered the old ways even when the cracker boys tried to whip it out of 'em. Dem white boys, they scared, 'cause their God was a mean old bastard. Genocide-happy. Came over on the Mayflower with Bible in hand and no soul in sight. England didn't want 'em.”

We took the crooked path — one of those tight London lanes that seems to buckle inwards, like reality's bending at the edges. Earl said Devil’s Lane was a psychogeographical relic. It might not have a nameplate or postcode anymore, but it was still there, threaded through the concrete and cobblestones like a spell.

Eventually, we came to a corner pub. No sign. Just a faint orange glow behind dusty windows. A tavern that shouldn’t have existed in 1991, not in Clerkenwell, not in this dimension.

We entered.

Inside was hush and warmth, like stepping into a dream you'd half-forgotten. The clientele was pure Interzone: punks, crusties, upper-class goths, hackers with soldered shades, ageing ravers (think Hawkwind), skate witches, occult scholars with battered notebooks. All of them outside something—mainstream time, maybe. But here they were home.

Then the lights dimmed to red and gold. A figure emerged from behind the bar. Tall. Impeccably dressed. Impossibly old. Lord Satan.

He moved through the room, shaking hands, nodding, making each person feel seen. Finally, he sat opposite us, poured brandy into antique crystal, and lit a cigar that smelled of autumn fire and ancient treaties.

Then he spoke.

---

The Satanic Sermon

"Homo sapiens are certainly not what they used to be — present company excepted, of course. Not even worth feeding to my beloved hellhound, Black Shuck. Not a meal of substance among them.”

"We had such high hopes. But the species is mostly spent now — bland, fearful, obsessed with control. As my loyal courtier, Duke Belial, once said, 'Awful people. No manners. No decorum. Absolutely devoid of finesse.'"

"But there are a few — like yourselves — who still carry the flame. Prometheans, stealing fire from the gods. Those few shall be their own salvation. And ours too."

"Dark times are coming. Yes, hard to believe in this so-called Second Summer of Love. The young are dancing out in the wilds, the tarantella of joy. But it's the calm before the storm, brethren and sistren. The final dance before the great beasts of control come to clamp it all down — not just the raves, but the whole world. A planetary lockdown. Surveillance without end."

"Make the most of this moment. For war is coming. A war not of bombs or bullets — but a war for the mind. A mind war. Subtle, silent. Most won't even know it's happening... until it's too late. Until they’re jacked into the grid, docile and done."

"But you — you are the resistance. You walk the crooked path. You know where to find me."

"Come again when you must. Walk Devil’s Lane. Find the HellRealm Tavern. And remember... we were always on your side."

---

Then he raised his glass, and everyone in the tavern followed. A toast to liberty, to rebellion, to the damned.

We left just before midnight. The rain came soft, washing the cobbles, distorting the city lights. When we turned back, the tavern was gone. Just brickwork and bins. A boundary wall. Nothing more.

But I still walk that lane sometimes, in dreams or in altered states. And sometimes, just sometimes, I smell the smoke of that cigar. And I know the war is still raging.

And we are still in it.

---

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🜏 Been down Devil’s Lane yourself?
Ever felt the tap on the shoulder when the street goes too quiet... or caught the scent of cigar smoke when there’s no one there? 😈

Drop your story. Or your pact.
We’re all on the crooked path here. 🕯️👣