The year is roughly 1989.

The summer air hung over Derry, with the sun casting long, golden rays that danced across the town’s quiet streets. The air was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and the faint, sweet aroma of blooming flowers, while the hum of cicadas filled the gaps in conversation. Kids raced down cracked sidewalks on rusty bikes, their laughter a bright counterpoint to the distant rumble of a train passing through the town’s edge. The Kenduskeag River sparkled under the sun, its waters lazily flowing, offering a cool refuge for those brave enough to wade in. On every street corner, the old Victorian houses stood tall, their paint peeling slightly under the relentless summer heat, but still holding onto the stories of decades past.

Beneath the surface of this idyllic scene, however, was a current of something darker, an unease that lingered in the shadows cast by the afternoon sun. The grown-ups, sipping iced tea on their porches, exchanged glances that spoke of whispered rumors, while the children in their innocent abandon, were blissfully unaware — or perhaps willfully ignorant — of the ominous presence that seemed to watch from the storm drains and the darkened alleys.