Two Inches from Your Face: The Child in the Red Coat

A Hurtville Horror Story by Scott Farmer

There are hills in the Ozarks that feel older than time—steep, silent, and thick with oaks that whisper even when there's no wind. Ask any local hiker, and they’ll warn you about the switchbacks above old Hurtville. They'll say: “Don’t stop too long. Don’t breathe too hard. And if you see red—don’t look.”

They're talking about the child in the red coat.

The story started after the dam was built and the White River turned into Table Rock Lake. A handful of hikers vanished along the ridgelines above where Hurtville used to be. Most were written off—got lost, fell, wandered off the trail. But a few were found, curled into balls, their eyes open and mouths frozen in a scream. No sign of trauma. No sign of attack. Just fear.
One of the search-and-rescue boys found something else, too: a tiny red button, shiny and clean, lying in the dirt at eye level.

That’s when people started talking.

They say if you hike alone in those hills and start to feel winded—heart pounding, breath heavy—the child finds you. You won’t hear her coming. No rustle of leaves. No footsteps. Just a sudden drop in temperature and a sense that something is very, very wrong.

Then, when you stop to catch your breath—she’s there.

Two inches from your face.

You won’t see her walk up. You won’t hear her breathe. You’ll just blink, and suddenly, there she is:
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A child, no taller than your chest, standing stock-still in a bright red coat that doesn’t move in the wind.

But her face?
There isn’t one.
Just a black, endless hollow where her features should be. No nose. No eyes. No mouth. Just a chasm of nothingness, like you’re staring into a deep, bottomless well.

And the worst part?

You’ll feel her breathe in.

Like she’s pulling your breath from your lungs. Like she’s tasting your exhaustion. Feeding on it.

Some say she was a child who got lost during the Hurtville fire, separated from her family as the flames closed in. Others believe she never had a face to begin with—that she was born from the fear of those last moments, from the screams of the dying, from the smoke that rose above the White River like a veil.

Now, she lingers in the hills.

Only shows herself to those who can’t breathe right—those who are weak.
They say she only gets closer the more tired you are. That she inches forward every time you exhale hard. And if you collapse from exhaustion… well, that’s when she takes your face.

No one knows what she does with them. But a few hikers have returned with missing eyes. No wounds. Just empty sockets. One man lost his voice entirely—mouth intact, but not a sound would come out. And he refuses to go near the hills again.

So if you’re hiking near where Hurtville once stood, pace yourself.
Breathe shallow. Keep moving. And if you hear something small walking behind you—don’t look.

And if you see red…

Close your eyes.

She’s not lost.
She’s looking for a face.
And she’s already closer than you think.