Pretty lies and eerie truths: why We Were Liars feels like a YA Twin Peaks

We Were Liars has that sunshine-on-the-surface vibe: rich kids, private island, summer fun. But underneath? A psychological twist that gives major Twin Peaks meets teen drama energy. You step into Cadence’s world expecting pastel beaches and end up with ghosts, memory gaps, and emotional fireworks.

The story of We Were Liars is not just about what happens. It’s about how it feels, like drifting through a dream while something sharp brushes against your skin. We Were Liars pulls you in with golden-hour aesthetics, then plants questions you can’t shake. What’s real? Who’s alive? And why does everything feel just a little too curated?

Island of secrets

In We Were Liars, Beechwood Island is practically perfection: manicured lawns, a sprawling Sinclair mansion, and four inseparable cousins. It’s the kind of dreamy summer scene you binge with a cocktail in hand, until everyone starts acting strange. Suddenly the villa feels like a stage set, and every smile hides a secret. This shift from idyllic to unsettling has that eerie calm where tension simmers beneath the surface. The creepiest moments are the quiet ones.

The island becomes a character in its own right in We Were Liars: timeless, isolated, seductive. Its beauty is so consistent it starts to feel fake, like a looping background in a video game. The calmness feels unnatural. Every angle looks like a photo op, which only highlights how off everything is. Even the waves seem to echo with something unsaid.

Memory bends without warning. You’re lulled by charm, then jolted awake when details unravel. The setting looks like a postcard, but the emotions running under it are dark and dangerous.

Beechwood in We Were Liars feels like the series version of the Black Lodge from Twin Peaks. Isolated, suspended in time, full of symbols that seem benign until they’re not. The rules of the island bend around grief and denial, just like the Lodge wraps pain in riddles. It’s not hell, not heaven, just a place where reality holds its breath and lets memory reshape the world.

Ghosts or mind games?

Cadence sees Johnny, Gat, and Mirren. But wait, they died in the fire? In We Were Liars, their appearances aren’t limited to her imagination. They’re legit ghosts, even acknowledged by Cadence’s mom in a spine chilling scene. That tension between supernatural mystery and fractured memory feels deeply Twin Peaks.

The brilliance of We Were Liars lies in the ambiguity. The show avoids defining the visions. It lets them linger in that eerie middle zone, where ghost stories and grief start to look the same. Whether you believe in spirits or not, you believe in Cadence’s heartbreak, and that makes the ghosts real enough.

It’s unsettling in the best way. Like hearing laughter in an empty hallway. Or realizing the people you’re talking to might be echoes of something already gone.

Trauma wrapped in sunshine

The show deftly swaps YA tropes, boat parties, love triangles, for a core of trauma. Cadence lost part of her memory and summer to a fire she and her friends started. The slow peel back of what really happened mixes teenage nostalgia with guilt so heavy it feels supernatural. It’s the emotional twist that sneaks up and wrecks you.

This is where We Were Liars stops being a summer story and becomes a study in how we process loss. Every flashback feels warm and perfect, until you rewatch it and realize the rot underneath. The beach bonfires, the secret kisses, the laughter on the docks, they’re not just memories. They’re weapons Cadence uses against her own guilt.

It’s not only about what she remembers. It’s about what she’s avoiding. Her mind stages a comeback tour of her favorite ghosts because the truth is too sharp to face.

The clearest image of her grief isn't a flashback or a ghost. It’s the moment she walks back into the burning house to retrieve her grandmother’s black pearl necklace. That necklace belonged to Tipper, the matriarch who upheld the Sinclair ideal—poised, composed, controlled. When Cadence chooses to cross the flames for it, she isn’t just reclaiming memory. She’s stepping into the family myth and letting it consume her. This is her rite of passage, her answer to denial. Fire walk with me—and she does.

Wealth, lies & family sins

The wealthy Sinclair dynasty looks picture perfect. But dig deeper: the adults fight over inheritance, parents gaslight kids, and old money stinks of entitlement. Reviewers flagged the series for hinting at deeper themes, privilege, racism, patriarchy, without fully committing. Still, the contrast between facades and inner decay echoes the social critique lurking under Twin Peaks’ surreal veneer.

There’s something grotesque about how composed they all are. The Sinclairs don’t cry in public. They don’t fight where others can see. But inside their perfect homes, love is a weapon and silence is punishment. It’s wealth as performance, and everyone’s playing a role to keep the illusion intact.

The real horror isn’t the fire. It’s the way they treat it as a blemish, not a tragedy. Something to be managed, not mourned. That disconnect hits harder than any jump scare.

Style with substance

Visually, the series is a feast: lush island colors, dreamy camera moves, soundtrack that hums underneath the action. It draws you in like a Candy Crush of teen drama and slow burns to a finale that hits like a gut punch. The result is pop appeal that creeps right into atmospheric thriller territory.

The styling choices echo that same duality: effortless chic with something off center. Cadence’s blue dress becomes a kind of ghost flag, fluttering through the timeline. The cinematography leans into reflection, mirrors, water, glass, blurring the line between what’s shown and what’s hidden.

Even the pacing plays a trick. It’s slow in places, indulgent with silences and pauses, but that’s the point. It’s not stalling. It’s building the mood until it breaks you with a whisper.

A season of summer, grief and ghosts

By the end, We Were Liars delivers that quintessential YA and supernatural combo. The mansion burns, the Liars die, ghosts linger, and Cadence sails away on her own path. It’s beach vibes meeting spectral dread, emotional reckoning in sun drenched frames, heartbreaking, haunting, and perfect for anyone who wants their summer read with a side of chills.

Cadence’s grief is never isolated. It spills over the island, into the language of the show itself. Even when characters smile, there’s a tension in their jaws. Even when they joke, there’s a shadow behind their eyes. Everyone’s pretending, and no one’s okay.

The ghosts don’t haunt the mansion. They haunt the viewer. You carry them past the credits, wondering what other truths you’ve dressed up as stories just to keep going.

So, why We Were Liars feels like Twin Peaks

This is a dreamy summer filled with hidden darkness. The island setting glows with warmth, but there’s a shadow stretching just beyond the frame. Every sunset feels like a warning.

The ghosts Cadence sees feel more real than the people around her. They talk, listen, joke, love. Their presence builds the emotional truth of the story more than any reveal ever could.

The family secrets don’t explode in chaos. They strangle in silence. Unspoken expectations, guilt masked as grace, and love weaponized through legacy—these are the tools of this generational tragedy.

The visual design blends beauty with unease. Sunlight glints off the water while conversations stall in frozen pauses. Reflections show more than the characters say. The atmosphere holds more meaning than dialogue.

If Twin Peaks asked “Who killed Laura Palmer?”, We Were Liars asks something quieter but just as devastating: “What happened to Cadence Sinclair?” Both stories circle around a girl whose pain reshapes the world. The mystery doesn’t orbit around action. It reveals how trauma distorts memory and rewrites identity.

Final beat: echoes beyond the shore

When Cadence says,

"I’m just really not into fairytales anymore,"

she leaves behind more than a legacy. She leaves a lie. And what stays? Whispers of ghosts, memories that burn, and a summer you’ll never see the same way again.

The truth in We Were Liars doesn’t arrive with thunder. It waits in corners. It floats on water. It hums through the walls of Beechwood. It doesn’t ask to be seen. It dares you to look closer. And once you do, you won’t forget what you found.