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.

A Hurtville Horror Story by Scott Farmer

The hills around Hurtville carry strange names and older secrets. Among the most whispered are those of the Baldknobbers—a group born from law and order after the Civil War, when the Ozarks were more lawless than lawful. Some say they were vigilantes. Others call them murderers with badges. But what no one denies is that three of them--Emmett, Clyde, and Boone—went bad. Real bad.

The story’s buried now, beneath Table Rock Lake like so much of Hurtville, but the bones of the truth still rattle in the hollows.

Back in the late 1800s, Hurtville was a scrappy settlement perched on a bend of the White River, full of logging camps, moonshine stills, and secrets too heavy to carry up the mountain. That’s when Emmett, Clyde, and Boone rode in with their long coats, black hoods, and rifles slung across their backs. They said they were there to keep the peace. What they really brought was death.

At first, they’d hang drunks and thieves from oak limbs without a word of trial. Then came the rumors—families vanishing overnight, cabins burned out with the doors nailed shut, and strange symbols carved into tree trunks around the river bend. Folks started to wonder if they were still men, or something darker.

One night, a local widow named Margaret Tipton accused the three of killing her son. Said he’d spoken against them at church and never came home. She marched into the saloon, rifle in hand, and told the whole town that the Baldknobbers were devils in disguise.

The next morning, her body was found floating face-down in the White River.

Her eyes were gone.

That’s when the town turned. A small group of men trapped the trio near the river’s edge, beat them bloody, and hung them from a sycamore tree just before dawn. But when they came back with the sheriff, the nooses were still swinging… empty. No bodies. Just bootprints—one barefoot—and a pool of blood that steamed despite the chill.

Then came the curse.

The ground never took grass again beneath that sycamore. Crops failed. People heard knocking beneath floorboards and scratching in their chimneys. The worst came at night: shadows standing at the edge of cabins, three figures tall and still, with wide black hats and eyes that glowed like lanterns through burlap masks.

They say Emmett, Clyde, and Boone never really died.

When the White River was dammed and Hurtville sank, their spirits stayed close to the water, bound by blood, fire, and justice twisted into something evil. Now, Table Rock Lake swallows moonlight like ink, and every so often, someone hears three knocks on their camper door. No one’s there. Just a wet footprint. A rope knot left on the step. Or a flat stone, cold and clean.

Some say the Baldknobbers are still carrying out judgment—but it’s not about justice anymore. It’s about revenge.

So if you're ever camping near where Hurtville once stood, and the lake’s too still, the air too heavy—listen for the wind.
​
If it sounds like boots on gravel...
If you see three shadows standing just out of reach of your fire...
If you hear one of them say your name...
Don't run.
Don’t speak.
And whatever you do, don’t look under your camper.
Because Emmett, Clyde, and Boone aren’t protecting the hills anymore.
They’re punishing them.

Some ghosts wear chains. Others wear black hoods. And the ones in the Ozarks never sleep.

A Hurtville Horror Story by Scott Farmer​

​They say a dog is man’s best friend. But out in the drowned woods of Hurtville, no one’s eager to make friends after dark—especially not with a black German Shepherd that moves without sound and eyes that glow like coals.

They call her Sabrina.

Before the fire, before the drowning of Hurtville, Sabrina was just a dog—sharp, loyal, and too smart for her own good. She belonged to a family that camped by the White River every summer. The youngest girl, Maisie, would tell anyone who’d listen that Sabrina could open zippers, unlatch gates, and even bark “yes” and “no.” Nobody really believed it—until the screaming started that last summer.

It was just before sunrise when the girl went missing. They searched the woods, the riverbank, the cabins—no sign of her. Then someone found Sabrina, wet and wild-eyed, barking in short bursts like she was trying to speak. They said she led them straight to the river.

They never found the girl. Just her shoe caught in a snag.

Something changed in Sabrina that day. She wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t sleep. Barked at shadows. Scratched at the cabin doors like she was trying to warn them. On the last night of Hurtville, as the smoke of the fire rolled in and the sky turned an unnatural orange, Sabrina ran into the river and disappeared beneath the surface.

Some say she drowned chasing the ghost of Maisie. Others believe she knew what was coming, and chose to face it.

That was years ago. Then came the dam. The White River became Table Rock Lake, and the valley that held Hurtville vanished under hundreds of feet of water.

But Sabrina never left.

Now, campers who stay too long near the lake’s edge tell of a black shape that appears after midnight. Silent. Watching. Its eyes glow red just above the waterline. No bark. No growl. Just the sound of claws scratching on stone.

Some say if you whistle, she’ll come.

Some say if you call out “Maisie,” she’ll stand on the water and stare until your fire dies out.

And if you hear splashing and heavy panting behind your tent in the dead of night—don’t unzip it.
Not unless you want to see teeth and mud-soaked fur and the glint of something human behind those eyes.

Because Sabrina still searches.
Not for her girl anymore.
But for company.

She drowned in the White River—but the lake brought her back.

And she’s been waiting.

Stay out of the water after dark. Don’t follow the barking. And if you hear paws behind you, run uphill. Always uphill.

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.