Fire Fury: The White Wraith of Hurtville

A Hurtville Horror Story by Scott Farmer

​They say she moves faster than the wind.
They say she was burned but never died.
And when the moon hits Table Rock Lake just right, you can see her floating—white as bone, fast as lightning, furious as hell.

They call her Fire Fury.

No one knows her real name. Some believe she was a woman wronged by the old Baldknobbers. Others say she was one of the early settlers—a healer, maybe, or something worse. What’s remembered is this: she was caught in the fire that ended Hurtville. Not by accident. On purpose.

The story goes that she lived just upriver from the main campgrounds, in a stone cabin tucked beneath a bluff. Folks feared her, called her a witch. She’d help some—deliver babies, set bones—but she always asked for something in return. A secret. A sin. A name. And people whispered that she kept them, held them close like currency.

When the three Baldknobbers went bad and started cleansing the hills in blood and smoke, they came for her first. Said she knew too much. Said she cursed the crops and made the animals go still in the womb. Said she stared too long and made men dream of drowning.

So they wrapped her in a white sheet, tied her to a post, and lit the fire themselves. But as the flames climbed, she never screamed.

She laughed.

And when the fire reached her face, she vanished. Gone. Nothing left but ash in the shape of two bare feet and the scorched iron nails they tried to hold her down with.

The next night, the fire spread—unnaturally fast—consuming all of Hurtville in less than an hour. People swore they saw her hovering above the blaze, her white sheet untouched by flame, her face glowing like coals behind it. Since then, she’s never stopped.

Now, they call her Fire Fury.

She moves like smoke through the Ozark hollers, her sheet fluttering even when there’s no wind. Campers by Table Rock Lake report seeing a figure flash past their cars, faster than headlights can catch. Hikers vanish on clear nights, their last sounds caught on phone recordings: the rushing of wind, then laughter.

And on moonlit nights, when the lake is still and silver, she appears—hovering just above the surface. Her sheet pristine white. Her arms stretched wide. Her face… never seen. Because if you see it, you’re marked.

Marked for the fire.

Some say she hunts only those who lie, who sin, who hide things in the dark.
Others say she doesn’t care anymore. She just burns.

So if you're camping near the water and your fire flickers suddenly—no breeze, no sound—look to the trees. If you see a flash of white move between them, don’t call out.
​
If you hear the laughter, cover your face.
And if she appears above the water, don’t watch her.

Because Fire Fury was never buried. Never forgiven. And the White River still owes her a debt.