Sunset Valley is a small coastal town famed for its sunny beaches, down home hospitality, and rich history. Or at least that’s what the brochures down at the Chamber of Commerce say. The inhabitants know that the glossy pictures of happy families swimming and tanning and playing volleyball are as fake as the smile of a father who got yet another ugly tie for Father’s Day.
The real Sunset Valley, the rotted wood beneath the gilding, is the home of many ghosts.
They wander around the graveyard at night, their mutterings and laughter floating on the night breeze.
Only the bravest of the townsfolk venture to the graveyard at night. There are reports of vast hidden chambers and strange monsters beneath the mausoleum, but the few fools who have gone exploring are not capable of rational conversation when they return. If they return.
Occasionally a poor confused soul will try to run away, perhaps desiring to go home to missed loved ones or to check on the sink one more time.
Unfortunately for them, this gray limbo realm has a shepherd. Nothing escapes his notice, and all errant lambs are brought back to the fold.
Well – mostly all. Occasionally, maybe once in a century, someone manages to come back.