Girl in the Static

The summer of '89 should have been about poolside parties, mixtape exchanges, and furtive crushes, but for me, June was a harbinger of doom. I was fifteen, an age already brimming with awkwardness and identity crises, and my life was about to be utterly upended.

My mom, a woman made of frayed nerves and misplaced nostalgia, immediately packed our meager belongings and dragged us back to her hometown - a place I'd only ever heard whispered about in hushed tones, called Rockaway Bay, Oregon.

I quickly learned that the line between folklore and fact was gossamer-thin. Ghosts weren't just campfire stories; their chilling whispers seemed to cling to the damp, salt-laden air, and the shadows lengthening in the twilight felt less like trees and more like watchful presences. And witches? Amidst this unsettling new reality, there was Quentin McBride.