Immerse yourself in Borrasca, a bone-chilling short horror story from the unsettling realm of creepypasta horror that unveils a disturbing town secret.
This Borrasca creepypasta follows Sam Walker’s move to Drisking, Missouri, where whispers of missing children and a place called Borrasca reveal a mining town horror. With its intricate narrative, psychological depth, and gut-wrenching climax, this tale captivates fans of internet horror mysteries seeking a plunge into dread.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1: The Move to Drisking
The Prescott family’s SUV wound through the Ozarks, arriving in Drisking, Missouri, a small mining town cradled by dense pines and rolling hills. Sam Walker, twelve, sat in the backseat with his sister Whitney, fifteen, and brother Kyle, sixteen, their faces pressed against the windows, taking in the quaint houses on Ambercot Drive.
Their father, newly hired as a deputy sheriff, and mother, Anne, saw the move from Chicago as a chance for a quieter life, but Sam felt a prickle of unease, the town’s stillness hiding a shadow. Their new home was cozy, with a wraparound porch, but the neighbors’ stares were sharp, their smiles forced, especially Sheriff Clery’s, his green eyes glinting like a predator’s.
At Drisking Middle School, Sam overheard whispers about Borrasca, a forbidden place in the woods, marked by a triple tree—a gnarled oak with three trunks. Kimber Dillon, a redhead with a fierce gaze, warned him to avoid it, her voice low, mentioning missing children like Jimmy Prescott and Cole, vanished without a trace.
Kyle, eager to fit in, dragged Sam and Whitney to a party at the West Rim Prescott Station, an abandoned mining site littered with rusted equipment.
The air there was thick, the ground scarred with strange marks, and a low hum, like a screaming machine, pulsed faintly from the hills. Sam met Phoebe Dranger, a nervous girl who spoke of Borrasca as a place of fear, her eyes darting to the pines where the triple tree loomed, its branches twisted like fingers.
That night, Sam lay awake, the house creaking, the hum from the hills seeping into his dreams. Whitney sat by her window, her silhouette tense, whispering, “It’s out there, Sam.” He brushed it off, but the town’s silence felt alive, the pines murmuring secrets.
At school, Kimber’s warnings grew sharper: “Don’t go near Borrasca. It’s where they go.” Sam’s curiosity sparked, the mining town horror stirring in his gut, pulling him toward the woods where answers—and danger—waited.
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Chapter 2: Whispers of the Past
Drisking’s summer was humid, the air heavy with pine and something metallic, like rust or blood. Sam navigated school, where kids formed tight cliques, their eyes wary of outsiders.
Kimber became his anchor, her stories of missing children—Emeline, Meera, others—chilling him. “They disappear near the triple tree,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, her fingers tracing scars on her arm. Kyle, meanwhile, fell in with Parker and Emmitt, popular kids who spoke of Borrasca with sly grins, daring each other to hike to the West Rim.
Whitney grew quiet, her sketchbook filling with drawings of the triple tree, its roots smeared with red crayon, her eyes haunted by the hum that echoed at dusk, a screaming machine grinding in the distance.
One Saturday, Kyle took Sam to explore the West Rim Prescott Station, its rusted cranes and conveyors looming like ghosts. The hum was louder here, vibrating through the dirt, and Sam found a metal hatch, half-buried, etched with strange symbols—circles, spirals, lines. Kyle kicked it, dismissing it as junk, but his eyes flicked nervously to the pines.
Sheriff Clery appeared, his smile too wide, his hand heavy on Sam’s shoulder. “Stay out of the woods, boys,” he said, his tone a veiled threat. Back home, Whitney was waiting, her face pale. “I heard it again, Sam,” she said, describing a grinding noise, like bones in a machine, coming from the Borrasca hills. She showed him her sketch: the triple tree with a shadowed figure beneath, eyeless, watching.
Sam’s dreams turned dark, the triple tree looming, its roots dripping red, the screaming machine’s wail shaking his bones.
He asked Kimber about Borrasca, and she froze, her eyes wide. “It’s not just a place,” she said, “it’s what they do there. The Prescotts, Clery—they know.” Sam’s heart raced, the disturbing town secret taking shape, the hum a constant pull, urging him to uncover what Drisking hid in its shadowed woods.
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Chapter 3: Whitney’s Vanishing
Summer faded, and Drisking’s unease grew, the town’s quiet streets masking a restless tension. Kyle drifted deeper into Parker and Emmitt’s circle, their laughter sharp, their eyes hiding secrets. Whitney became a ghost of herself, her sketches of the triple tree obsessive, her whispers about Borrasca frantic.
“They’re taking them again, Sam,” she told Kimber one night, her voice trembling, her hands clutching a drawing of a girl under the oak, blood pooling. Then Whitney disappeared, her bed empty, her window open, a single triple tree sketch left behind, stained red.
Anne was frantic, calling neighbors, her voice shrill as she demanded answers. Sheriff Clery arrived, his green eyes cold, promising a search. “Kids run off,” he said, but his smile was wrong, his badge glinting like a warning. Sam’s father, now distant, nodded along, his deputy uniform heavy with complicity.
Sam snuck out, following Kyle to the West Rim, where the screaming machine hum was deafening, a grinding roar from the hills. Headlights flashed—trucks, not police—moving toward the triple tree. Kyle stood with Parker, their faces pale under the moon, a cloaked figure watching from the pines, its shadow stretching over the Borrasca site.
Sam hid, his heart pounding, as the figure vanished, the hum fading. He confronted Kyle at home, his voice shaking. “Where’s Whitney?” Kyle’s eyes were hollow, his hands trembling. “You don’t understand, Sam. Leave it.”
Sam found Whitney’s journal, its pages filled with triple tree drawings and scrawled words: “They take the girls. Borrasca eats them.” His dreams that night were vivid: Whitney screaming, the screaming machine grinding, blood pooling under the oak, the cloaked figure watching. Drisking moved on, neighbors whispering of runaways, but Sam couldn’t, the mining town horror sinking deeper, the disturbing town secret a wound that wouldn’t close.
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Chapter 4: Digging for Answers
High school hardened Sam, now fifteen, his sister’s absence a scar. Kyle was a stranger, his eyes empty, nights spent at the West Rim with Parker and Emmitt, their whispers about Borrasca guarded. Anne drank, her eyes red, while Sam’s father buried himself in sheriff duties, his face mirroring Clery’s coldness.
Sam scoured the library, finding records of missing children—dozens over decades, names like Jimmy Prescott, Meera, Cole, all linked to the triple tree or West Rim Prescott Station. A 1950s article mentioned Borrasca, a shuttered mine, its tunnels sealed after “incidents,” the screaming machine a nickname for old equipment, but locals dodged questions, their eyes wary.
Sam reconnected with Phoebe Dranger, now withdrawn, her voice trembling as she spoke of Kimber’s disappearance, how she’d warned her about Borrasca. “It’s not just a place, Sam,” she said, “it’s what they do there.
The girls—they don’t come back.” He pressed, but fear silenced her. At night, Sam snuck to the West Rim, the screaming machine hum shaking the ground, the triple tree visible through the pines. Trucks rumbled, men in dark coats unloading crates, Clery’s flashlight glinting. Sam saw the hatch, its rusted surface scratched with symbols, and heard a scream—muffled, human—from below.
He followed Kyle one night, catching him with a girl, drunk, near the Borrasca site. Kyle’s face was grim, his hands shaking as he muttered, “It’s not my fault.” Sam lunged, demanding answers, but Kyle shoved him back, his eyes wild.
“Stay out, Sam. You’ll make it worse.” At home, Sam found Whitney’s journal again, its words clearer: “Prescott knows. Clery knows. They take the girls to Borrasca.” The mining town horror was real, and Sam vowed to uncover the disturbing town secret, to find Whitney, Kimber, and the truth buried under Drisking’s hills.
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Chapter 5: Into the Abyss
Sam, now seventeen, was consumed, his room a warren of Borrasca clues—maps, articles, lists of missing children. Phoebe helped, her fear easing as they found an old mine map, showing Borrasca’s tunnels beneath the West Rim, linked to the triple tree. The screaming machine hum was constant, rattling windows at night, a grinding wail that haunted Sam’s dreams.
His father, now a shadow of Clery, wore the same green-eyed stare, his deputy badge a mark of betrayal. Anne was lost to whiskey, her voice slurring, “Whitney’s gone, Sam. Stop digging.”
One moonless night, Sam and Phoebe crept to the triple tree, the air thick with iron and decay, the oak’s trunks twisted like veins. The screaming machine roared below, and Sam pried open the hatch, its hinges groaning, revealing stairs descending into darkness. Their flashlights shook, illuminating slick walls, the hum deafening, a grinding scream that pulsed through their bones.
The tunnel opened into a chamber, its floor stained red, crates stuffed with girls’ clothes—shoes, dresses, Whitney’s scarf, bloodied. Phoebe gasped, her hand clutching Sam’s, as footsteps echoed, heavy and deliberate.
Sheriff Clery emerged, his smile cruel, his gun gleaming. “Wrong place, Sam,” he said, his eyes glinting like the triple tree’s shadow. Men in coats appeared, their faces familiar—town council, police, Sam’s father among them. Phoebe screamed, but they grabbed her, dragging her deeper, her cries swallowed by the screaming machine.
Sam fought, his fists useless against their strength, and Clery’s gun butt sent him to the floor, his vision fading. He woke in the woods, alone, his head throbbing, Phoebe gone, the Borrasca hum a taunt, the disturbing town secret a truth he couldn’t unsee.
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Chapter 6: The Unthinkable Revealed
Sam hid, his mind fractured by the Borrasca chamber—blood, clothes, the screaming machine’s wail. He broke into his father’s office, finding files labeled “Borrasca,” each detailing missing children—girls, taken to the mine, their fates written in cold terms: “Processed.” Whitney’s file was there, her photo smiling, stamped with a date.
Sam’s stomach churned, the disturbing town secret clear: a trafficking ring, run by Drisking’s elite—Prescott, Clery, his father—using Borrasca’s tunnels for horrors beyond imagining. He confronted Kyle, now a ghost, his eyes sunken. “You knew,” Sam accused, and Kyle collapsed, sobbing, “They made me help, Sam. I didn’t want to.”
Sam returned to Borrasca, the hatch unguarded, the screaming machine’s roar deafening. The tunnels twisted, leading to a vast chamber, its walls lined with cages, girls inside, some alive, some still, their eyes hollow. Phoebe was there, chained, her face bruised, her voice gone. The screaming machine stood at the center—a rusted, blade-filled device, its metal stained with blood, used for unspeakable acts.
Clery appeared, grinning, “Welcome to Borrasca, Sam.” Men in coats watched, their faces smug—Prescott’s kin, town leaders, Sam’s father, his badge glinting. “You can’t stop it,” Clery said, his gun raised.
Phoebe’s scream broke through, and Sam lunged, grabbing a pipe, swinging wildly. He struck Clery, blood spraying, but more men came, their eyes cold, their hands strong. Sam fought, his pipe cracking bones, but they pinned him, the screaming machine’s wail drowning his cries.
Phoebe’s eyes met his, pleading, as Clery laughed, “You’re part of it now.” Sam broke free, running, the tunnels a maze, the hum chasing him. He emerged at the triple tree, collapsing, the mining town horror eternal, Drisking’s lights glowing below, complicit in Borrasca’s evil.
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Chapter 7: The Lone Survivor
Sam fled Drisking, his car stuffed with Whitney’s journal, the stolen Borrasca files, his heart heavy with loss. Phoebe, Whitney, the missing children—their faces haunted him, the screaming machine’s wail echoing in his dreams. He sent the files to the FBI, anonymous, but Drisking’s influence ran deep, the case buried, Clery untouchable.
Sam drifted through cities, a shadow, the creepypasta horror of Borrasca a secret he couldn’t share. Online forums buzzed with whispers—posts about a Missouri town, a triple tree, a screaming machine—but no one believed, the mining town horror dismissed as fiction.
Years later, Sam returned, broken, his hair gray, his eyes hollow. Drisking was unchanged, its pines hiding Borrasca’s truth, its streets quiet. He stood at the triple tree, its roots stained, the hum faint but alive. Kids still whispered of missing children, their eyes wary, the cycle unbroken. Sam left a note at the oak, for Whitney, for Phoebe: “I’m sorry.”
He walked away, the Borrasca creepypasta spreading online, a warning ignored, the disturbing town secret eternal. Drisking’s lights flickered, the screaming machine waiting, its hunger undying, ready for the next to uncover its horror.
