The Hollowed-Eyed Three: Curse of the Baldknobbers

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.
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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.