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.
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