Sabrina

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.