Lewiston, Virginia is normally a quiet little town. One night, however, death came calling and all hell broke loose at the old Johnson Cemetery. An innocent night out on the town and a spur of the moment trip to a local cemetery turns into a night of horror and terror for eight young men and women. What could these young people – all barely out of high school, a gold watch, a cemetery, and an undead, yet not wholly alive creature have in common? Could a watch that was stolen from the wrist of a corpse some 50 plus years earlier bring all these things together – and answer the question? Yes… if the motive was revenge. If the person who owned the watch in life ... wanted to reclaim it in death.
Excerpt
One
Lewiston, Virginia
June 26, 1999, a.m.
Summer has arrived in Lewiston.
Not just summer, my friends, but the apotheosis of summer. A big bright hot sun glaring through that beautiful powdery-blue sky. The sound of children running and playing, the tink of ball bats from the ball field and park over at the Hallen Memorial Recreation Field. The sounds of riding mowers and power mowers and the sounds of children roller-blading down the cement sidewalks of Main Street. The aroma of hot dogs cooking drifts along the air currents on any givin evening and you can almost hear the steaks and burgers sizzling on the barbecue grills as hungry, salivating mouths await their inevitable arrival.
Summertime and life in Lewiston, Virginia, for the most part, is as good as one ever dreamed it could be, with an average of two vehicles parked in every driveway, luscious green lawns and carefully looked after flower gardens.
The town sets between two gigantic, picturesque mountains and the famous Blue Ridge Parkway is only a seven minute drive from the middle of town.
Smith Mountain Lake, with its five hundred miles of shoreline—one of the largest man-made lakes in the United States and possibly in the world—is a very short forty-five minute drive from the town. The lake offers fishing (stripers, large mouth and small mouth bass are among the favorites of the local fishermen), boating, camping, water skiing—just about anything you want to do when it comes to water sports Smith Mountain Lake offers it.
Hell, the Blue Ridge Parkway in itself would make living in Lewiston worthwhile. It’s an absolutely gorgeous drive, especially in the fall of the year when the leaves have turned and are in their majestic array of colors. People from hundreds of miles away arrive here in droves each fall during the peak foliage season just to drive the Parkway and bathe in its splendor.
For the most part people around here are good, God-fearing country folk. There are exceptions, however, just as there are exceptions in any town in these United States of America.
The biggest regular event that occurs around Lewiston happens on Friday nights in the fall of the year over at the high school. That’s when the Lewiston varsity football team, known as the Cougars, takes to the field. Most everyone in town attends the games regardless of weather conditions. Neither snow, nor sleet, nor rain, nor anything short of hell freezing over will keep the locals from watching their beloved, pride and joy football team in action. Even though their best record posted to date is a mediocre 7-4 season, but—no matter… Pittsburgh has its Steelers, Washington, DC has its Redskins—Lewiston has its Cougars. Definitely not the same caliber and level of play, but the same intensity of fans nevertheless.
I suppose the biggest thing (on a scale of one to ten and this being a ten) that has ever happened in the town was when one of the local stores was robbed a few months back. Others may argue that it was when a werewolf came to visit Lewiston, wreaked havoc all over the place, and killed several of its citizens. Some say it was when Florence Rosenthal was murdered. However, as far as I know, the werewolf claim to fame is purely an unsubstantiated rumor. There is one person in town who claims to have been involved with the hunting down and killing of the creature. His name is Bill Blake, otherwise known as Butch. He owns a little grocery/hardware store here in town. The store was supposedly given to him by—and please forgive me when I say, “Give Me a Break!”—a fellow by the name of Ronnie Hollinsworth, the man accused of being the werewolf.
According to Butch, when he and Ronnie had their showdown with the werewolf the creature bit Ronnie on the neck and thereby, effectively caused him to become a lycanthrope. Butch maintains they destroyed the creature and then just a little over a year later he had to kill his best friend, too—after the changes began. Moreover, Butch says, he killed Ronnie ‘Now the Werewolf’ Hollinsworth with the very silver bullet that Hollinsworth himself had had made to kill the werewolf they had hunted down together.
I’ve spoken with several police agencies and newspaper reporters in and around the area—they all are in agreement that something weird did occur in Lewiston around 1991, but they all pretty much also agree it was more than likely some kind of mass suicide—an occult thing, but not a werewolf. However, ask some of the townspeople and you’ll get a no-nonsense “Of course there was a werewolf”, or they will simply walk away, shrugging their shoulders, ignoring the question.
Perhaps I should talk with this fellow Butch a bit more sometime.
Before I digress further—back to the store that was robbed:
The structure is located on the East End of town, almost at the city limits sign, on the corner of Main Street and U.S. 21. It is one of the ever-popular, all-American convenience markets. You can get your cigarettes, daily newspaper, Old Milwaukee or Miller beer, paper plates and cups, plastic spoons and forks, mustard, ketchup, relish… the whole bit necessary for a good cookout. You can even pick up a copy of Playboy at the Quick In if you are so inclined to that sort of magazine. However, you’ll have to ask the clerk to get it for you, because in Lewiston, Virginia the kinky magazines are kept under the counter, just to the right of the cash register. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with hiding them. The important thing is you can get one if you should ever want one.
It was March 8, 11:27 p.m. when the 911 call came in at the county sheriff’s office.
“Help me… I’ve been shot,” was the message heard by the 911 operator. The voice was female and very excited.
“Where are you, what is your location? Is the gunman still there?”
With a pained tone in the female’s voice, she replied, “I’m at the Quick In at the corner of Main Street and U.S. 21… in Lewiston.”
“Can you describe your assailant?”
“There were two of them… one black man… one white. They’re driving a red 1993 Ford van, plate number CRK-HED. When they left here they were headed north on Route 21.”
“That’s two men, driving a red 1993 Ford van, license plate number Charlie Robert Karen Hotel Echo Delta… right?”
“Yes, that’s right.” The female voice on the other end of the phone line coughed and then added: “And they are headed north on U.S. 21.” The woman’s head was beginning to spin, she was getting weak.
“Do you need an ambulance?”
“Yes I need a fucking ambulance! I told you I have been shot!” she shot back.
“Calm down, ma’am… please calm down. An officer is on the way and an ambulance is being dispatched right now. Would you like to stay on the line with me until he gets there?”
The female voice is not as quick to respond to the question. Her voice sounds very debilitated, fragile. “Yes… I will… stay on… the phone. Please… send som… someone. I am bleed…ing very badly.”
“Ma’am, try to remain as calm as you can. Keep talking to me until someone arrives and let me know when they do. Okay?” The 911 operator could tell the woman she was talking to was probably in bad shape just by the tone and slowness of her voice. She hoped in the back of her mind, for her sake the ambulance would arrive in time.
Twenty-six year-old Julee Kay Jackson made the 911 call that evening. She said when the two men—from Richmond, Virginia it was learned later—entered the store that night she immediately knew what was going down. There was no doubt what their intent was. The black man walked over to the cash register while the white man stood watch at the front entrance door.
Julee forced a smile as the black man approached her. “Good evening,” she said politely, but with much apprehension and fear in her voice. She knew, she just knew in her heart and soul, that the would-be-robber detected the false greeting, if not in her voice, then surely in her eyes. Her palms were sweating, adrenaline caused her heart to pound loudly in her chest, fear tugged at the coat tails of her soul.
The man didn’t smile back. He simply kept walking toward her, staring straight at her face. His hand was in his right pocket. When he was only six feet away he said, very coldly and with a voice filled with venom, “Good evening my ass, bitch.” He pulled a gun from his pocket and cocked the hammer back. He pointed the gun directly at her head. “Put your goddam hands on top of your head and get away from the fucking cash register!” the black man screamed at her. “Shut the fuck up,” he barked when she began sobbing uncontrollably and began yelling, “Oh God don’t kill me… don’t kill me. I have a two-year old son at home. Please do not kill me.”
The black man opened the register, took out the money ($27) and then turned to face Julee. Holding the money in his left clinched fist he asked, “Is this all you have? This is all there is?” He put the gun within two inches of her face and added: “Motherfucker where do you keep the rest of the money?” His eyes looked as though they were frozen over, he looked as though he was staring right through her.
