Fishy: The Thing Beneath

A Hurtville Horror Story by Scott Farmer

Long after the fires of Hurtville were smothered and the White River was dammed into Table Rock Lake, folks still came to fish the waters. Bass, bluegill, crappie—some of the best fishing in the Ozarks. Quiet coves. Early morning fog. Peaceful… until it isn’t.

Ask any seasoned angler and they’ll tell you:
“It ain’t the cold that gives you chills out there. It’s Fishy.”

That’s what they call it—Fishy.

A joke name, sure. But there’s nothing funny about the black mass that waits below the boat, just out of view. It’s not a fish. Not a shadow. And it’s not the water playing tricks on your eyes. Fishy is real. And the first time you feel it or smell it you’ll wish it wasn’t.

It begins when you’re alone on the lake. Just you, your rod, the slow lapping of water. Then you start to feel it and smell it—a presence, right behind you. Like someone’s standing at your back on the boat deck. Breathing. Watching. Maybe you even glance over your shoulder. Of course, there’s no one there. Just fog. Just trees.

Then you lean forward to check your line… or worse, to look into the water.

That’s when you see it.

Not a face. Not a fish. Just a mass—a shape darker than the deep. No eyes, no limbs, just a coiling black smear that stretches and flickers like oil on the move. It doesn’t ripple. It doesn’t swim. It hovers, waiting beneath the surface, pulsing like it’s breathing.

And if you look too long, you’ll see your reflection disappear.

Gone. Swallowed by the black. Replaced by… something else. A second version of you. Twisted. Smiling. Mouthing things under the water. Things only you should know.

That’s how Fishy gets you.

The first to report it was a man from Reeds Spring back in 1977. He came back ashore barefoot, shivering in the sun, and wouldn’t touch water again for the rest of his life. Claimed something grabbed his ankle when he reached over to net a bass. Something cold and soft and too smooth to be human.

Others followed anglers who vanished completely, their boats found drifting in circles. Lines snapped. Motors running. Coolers full. No one inside.

Then came the dreams. The ones where you’re sinking, lungs full, and a black shape with your face is rising to the surface instead.

Folks started saying Fishy wasn’t a spirit, but a memory—a leftover piece of Hurtville that shouldn’t have survived the flood. Something that drowned angry, hungry, and nameless. Maybe it was a child thrown into the river. Maybe it was the sins of the asylum. Maybe it was never human at all.

Now, it waits for those who cast their lines too deep. Who stay on the water too long. Who let their minds drift just a little too far.

So, if you’re fishing on Table Rock Lake and you feel something behind you…
Don’t turn around.
Don’t lean forward.
And whatever you do, don’t look into the water.

Because Fishy’s waiting.
And it wants to wear your reflection next.

Some things glide.
Some things rot.
And some things haunt without eyes.