Post date: October 29, 2025

By Allison Romano

It was a cold October morning, the sun had just risen, casting a pale light over the wind beaten hill. The trees moaned under the force of the howling wind, their branches clawing at the gray sky. At the top of that lonely hill stood a crooked, dust covered house. The oddest thing about this place known as Whispering Oaks was there was only one way up. And no way down. There were no neighbors, no shops, no footpaths. Just a blank silhouette of an old house staring at nothing. This house belonged to the Robinson’s.

For decades, the Robinson estate was the pride of New Jersey. Lavish, storied,and full of life it once stood as the crown jewel of the state. People came from towns over  just to see the gardens, the banquets, the laughter. In those days people of the Oaks partied nights on end, dancing under lanterns strung through golden trees. The music, loud and fierce, rolled over the hills for nights, never seeing sight of the end. It was a sensation and the Robinsons were wealthy. Legends. And the talk of the century until one horrifying evening.

The date was February 29, 1908, a date that comes once in four years. An unnatural day. Inside the house the Robinsons began preparing for what was supposed to be the greatest celebration the hill had ever seen.

“George, did you ask the chef to cook the roast beef?” Lori Robinson called from the upstairs, her voice sharp over the clatter of servants in motion.

“Yes,I did!” George replied from the drawing room, adjusting his gold cufflinks in the mirror. “Did you ask the maids to put out the gold decorations?"

"Of course I did,” Lori said, sweeping into the hallway with the grace of a queen.

Tonight was the night of a celebration of new life. The welcoming of their newborn daughter, Priscilla, just a week old. Priscilla was a quiet child, unnervingly still, the kind of baby sleep deprived mothers dreamed off. Dressed head to toe in all pink satin with the largest gold bow Lori could find. Pricilla looked more like a porcelain doll than an actual living thing. The entire town had been invited and the festivities were set to last seven days. A week of music. A week of laughter. A week of gold but no one, not even the Robinsons, could have predicted what the hill had planned.

As the guests began to arrive, the great hall of Whispering Oaks shimmered with gold and candle light. The orchestra tuned their violins, and the servants hurried about, balancing gold trays heavy with champagne. Laughter filled the air, echoing through the long hallways. For the first time since Lori Robinson's birth the house finally seemed alive again. But outside the wind refused to die. It roared down the hill as if warning them to stop, to turn back. No one listened. 

At precisely midnight, as the clock struck twelve, a sudden silence fell. The violins  ceased. The laughter stopped. Even the candles flickered out, one by one, until the grand hall was swallowed by darkness. A baby's cry pierced the silence. Lori's heart dropped. She knew that sound, it was Pricilla. But it wasn't coming from the nursery upstairs. It was coming from the ballroom chandelier, where a faint glow of pink began to pulse. 

“George?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Before he could answer the chandler began to sway. The crowd gasped as the light within it grew brighter, until it shattered. Sending shards of gold and glass raining down upon guests. When the dust cleared up, the room was empty. No servants. No guests. No music. Only the Robinson’s remained, Lori,George and the faint sound of their daughter crying from somewhere deep below the floor. 

They searched their house for hours, calling her name,tearing through every locked door, every shadowed corner. The crying grew fainter, echoing through the walls, until it was gone. By dawn, the hill was silent. No one saw the Robinsons after that night. The servants never returned, and the guests' carriages were found abandoned at the foot of the hill. Whispering Oaks stood dark and untouched, its windows staring out over the empty land like blind eyes. 

Years pass. The house decayed. Wind and rain stripped its beauty to none and dust. Locals whispered that on leap years, the lights would flicker on again. Music would drift down the hill, soft and distant. And if you stood close enough, you could hear a baby crying followed by the faint sound of a woman's voice calling her name.

“Priscila…”

No one ever found a way back down and no one really knows what happened to Robinson's that night. Some say the hill took them as part of the curse, and others believe they died with their daughter. And others believe they never left. But one thing's for sure: whenever the wind howles through the trees of whispering oaks, it almost sounds like laughter. Or maybe crying. It's hard to tell the difference anymore.