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Hometown ghost stories contains serious and often distressing events and is not intended for all audiences.

Viewer discretion is advised.

It began in the vineyards.

Spring in Givry, France 1349 should have brought warmth and wine and song.

But this year, there were no festivals, no weddings,

and no music, only silence and rumors. Word had come from the West. Paris was dying. Then,

Dijon. Villages were emptied in days. They said it started with the boils hard lumps under the arms

behind the knees and in the groin the skin blackened people vomited blood then they fell

and then they died not after days sometimes mere hours, sometimes mid-sentence.

The people of Jeevri prayed.

They avoided strangers, burned herbs in their doorways.

The church would hold mass daily, but nothing could prepare them for what came next.

The first to see it was a child, a boy named Henry,

who wandered too far into the fields chasing a wind-blown scrap of cloth.

He returned trembling, whispering of a man at the edge of the vines,

a tall man in a black cloak, unmoving, faceless, and hands that were just bone.

And in one of them, he carried a long, curved blade.

His mother told him it was just a shadow, a trick of the sun.

But that night, Henry's mother was dead. No fever, no blood, just gone. The figure

came closer the next day, this time seen by more than one. A shepherd spotted him watching from

...