Ain't no Short-handled Shovels

The year is 193x. The Great Depression is in full swing, prohibition isn’t quite dead, and

 if you believe the preachers on the radio the devil’s waiting at every crossroads. And they’re not completely wrong- it’s just that devils aren’t the only weird things out there.

 You and yours live on the fringes- folks of no fixed address for a variety of reasons.  You get called a lot of things- drifters, hobos, tramps, bums. Some folks will argue over specific definitions around the camps when the fires are burning, saying that a bum is someone who doesn’t want to work and a tramp will take what work’s available, and the like, but mostly, they’re used pre y interchangeably by people who have a roof over their head and don’t worry about getting their next meal.

As gentlefolk of leisure, you’re more aware than most of what’s out there. For all that the US of A is considered a young country, it’s one that’s surprisingly haunted, and  most of the ghosts are young too- ghostly trains trying to make their last stop, ghostly drivers and hitchhikers all trying to get home one last time but never able to arrive. You might have tried to stay in an abandoned house only to discover the last occupants never left even when their bodies did. And the ghosts are only the start of things. There’s all kinds of things out there in the dark of the night- devils and critters and ghouls and long-legged beasts, some of which would very much prefer to not be seen by human eyes, but you’re both out there trying to make a living- or an un-living in some cases- so you just sort of nod at each other and make your way if you can.

And of course, on top of it all, everyone’s heard about the Mountain.