Girl in the Static

<p><strong>The summer of '89</strong> should have been about poolside parties mixtape exchanges and furtive crushes but for me June was a harbinger of doom. I was <strong>fifteen</strong> an age already brimming with awkwardness and identity crises and my life was about to be utterly upended.</p><p>My mom a woman made of frayed nerves and misplaced <em>nostalgia</em> 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 <em>Rockaway Bay Oregon</em>.</p><p>I quickly learned that the line between <em>folklore </em>and fact was gossamer-thin. <em>Ghosts </em>weren't just campfire stories; their <em>chilling whispers</em> 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 <strong>witches</strong>? Amidst this unsettling new reality there was<strong> Quentin McBride</strong>. </p><p> </p>