Draggin' Dave of Hurtville

A horror tale by Scott Farmer
​
The White River used to roll clean and steady through the hills of the Missouri Ozarks, winding like a serpent between bluffs and oak-covered hollers. Where it once bent sharp through the lowlands, there was a campground—Hurtville. Families came in droves to fish, swim, and pitch tents beneath the stars. But the river was dammed decades ago, and the deep valleys filled with water. Now, they call it Table Rock Lake.

And somewhere beneath that still, green water lies the bones of Hurtville… and something else.

Something they couldn’t bury.

They still whisper his name up in Stone County—though not loud, and never at night.

Draggin’ Dave.

No one’s sure who he was before. Some say he was a trapper who never left the woods. Others say he lived in a shack built with his own hands, way up past where the trails end. He’d come down to Hurtville sometimes, dragging pelts and bones behind him, trading them for whiskey and bait. Always alone. Always watching.

One summer—hot and dry—something snapped. Some say Dave had been hearing voices in the trees. Others say it was the White River itself whispering through the rocks, stirring up old madness. The campground was packed that weekend, folks drinking and singing along the banks, kids skipping stones, dads baiting hooks. Then came the screams.

A ranger was first to respond, running toward the sound. They found his hat days later, floating near the shallows. No blood. No body.

Then the fire came.

It started near the bathhouse, but spread fast—too fast. Eyewitnesses told of flames that twisted unnaturally, burning against the wind. People tried to run but said the smoke didn’t smell like wood. It smelled like meat.

One man swore he saw someone walking through the fire. Limps, hunched, dragging something behind him. Not running. Just walking. Watching.

When the fire died, Hurtville was gone. Nothing left but ash and warped metal. In the woods above, they found what they thought was Dave’s cabin. It was burned to cinders, but a charred boot lay near a blackened stump. Inside the boot was a foot. Just one.

They buried what they could find near the old road, before the water swallowed the valley. But the grave didn’t take. Or maybe the lake didn’t want to keep him.

Now, Table Rock Lake laps quietly over the old bones of Hurtville. But people who boat too far into the fingers of the lake, especially near moonless nights, hear it:

Thud… crunch… thud… crunch.

He’s still dragging that burned leg through the woods. They say he comes out of the water like steam, dripping lake moss, one eye white as the underbelly of a dead fish. You’ll hear the dragging first—one step normal, the other a thick, wet pull through leaves and rocks.

Some nights, campers swear they’ve seen him on the ridge above the waterline. A silhouette hunched and crooked, one arm too long, carrying something heavy in a canvas sack. Some say it’s his old traps. Others say it’s heads.

And if you hear him, whatever you do—don’t run downhill. Because downhill leads to the lake. And he always goes back to the water.

So if you’re hiking the Ozarks near Table Rock and you see mist rising off the lake on a windless night…
If you hear something dragging through the brush…
If your campfire flickers without wind…

That’s Dave.

Still looking for those who burned.
Still dragging his curse through the hills.

Because they dammed the White River, but they didn’t dam what lived beneath it.
And Hurtville never let go.

Draggin’ Dave walks still. One step for the living. One drag for the dead.