Alice had never believed in curses. She believed in old wood creaking, in drafts slipping through window frames, in the way memory could play tricks when a house was too big and too quiet. When her aunt’s will left her the countryside home, she felt more relief than fear. She was tired of city noise and endless gray. A quiet house seemed like an escape.

The first day was uneventful. She walked through the halls, running her fingers along faded wallpaper, counting doors. There were eight rooms upstairs, five downstairs, plus the basement and the attic. She took notes because she liked order. She told herself it was just to help with furniture placement, but really she wanted to map the space, to feel she had control.

That night the house seemed to breathe. Floorboards shifted with groans as though something moved beneath them. Alice laughed nervously, turning on a bedside lamp, reminding herself old houses always made noise. She fell asleep eventually.

In the morning, she brewed coffee and wandered through the halls. She froze. The upstairs hallway was shorter. She remembered eight doors. Now there were only seven. Where the eighth door had been was blank wall, seamless as though nothing had ever been there.

Her stomach dropped. She checked her notes. Eight. She had written it clearly. She walked back and forth, knocking on walls. Solid. No hidden passage, no trick of light. She even took out her phone and scrolled through the photos she had snapped. The missing door was in them. But when she looked up, the wall was smooth.

Alice told herself she was tired. Moving was stressful. Maybe she had miscounted. She tried to shake it off, though unease clung to her like damp clothing.

The second night, she dreamed of footsteps pacing outside her room. Heavy, deliberate, circling closer and closer until she woke with her heart in her throat. She flung the door open, expecting emptiness. The hall stretched silent, moonlight painting pale stripes across the floor.

By morning, another room was gone. Six doors. She stared at the wall until her eyes burned. Her notes mocked her. Eight, she had written. She whispered the number under her breath, a prayer against forgetting.

On the third night she barely slept, ears straining for sound. Just before dawn she swore she heard wood splintering, as if something was being swallowed by the house itself. She rushed out to the hall, but it was too late. Five doors.

Panic grew inside her. She called a contractor, trying to sound casual as she asked about structural shifts in old homes. The man chuckled, saying houses didn’t just eat their own rooms. He offered to come inspect, but when she gave the address, his tone faltered. He said he was busy, hung up quickly, and never called back.

Alice went into town the next day, desperate for distraction. At the corner store, an elderly woman eyed her with sharp curiosity. “You’re staying in the Latham place,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Alice answered, surprised.

The woman’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “That house doesn’t like company.” She shuffled away before Alice could ask more.

That night, Alice pushed a chair against her door. It felt childish, but fear crawled under her skin. She sat awake for hours, gripping a flashlight, watching shadows breathe on the walls. At some point exhaustion won. When she woke, the chair was toppled, the door wide open.

The hall had only four doors left.

Alice sobbed, pressing her palms against the walls, begging them to give her the rooms back. Her aunt’s voice echoed in memory, soft and secretive: Some doors should stay closed. Alice had never asked what she meant. Now the words chilled her bones.

On the fifth night, the dream returned, sharper. She saw the missing rooms stacked like broken teeth in darkness. She heard whispers curling like smoke, voices of people she didn’t recognize murmuring in endless chorus. She tried to run but the floor dissolved beneath her, and she fell through silence.

When she awoke, she was on the floor of her room, gasping. Three doors remained in the hallway.

Her phone had no signal. The landline produced only static. She thought of leaving, of grabbing her keys and running to her car, but when she opened the front door, the world outside was gone. The porch led only to blackness, as though the house floated in endless night.

Alice slammed the door shut and collapsed, trembling. The house had sealed her inside.

Days blurred. Food dwindled. She rationed, nibbling crackers and drinking from the tap. Sleep became impossible. She sat against the wall, eyes darting, whispering numbers like a litany. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three.

Another night. Another dream. This time her aunt appeared, pale and hollow-eyed. “You shouldn’t have stayed,” she said, reaching out with a hand that dissolved into dust. “The house remembers hunger.”

Two doors remained.

Alice clawed at the walls, tearing wallpaper, splintering wood with her fists. She screamed until her voice broke. Behind one wall she thought she heard breathing, slow and steady, as though someone was trapped inside. She pressed her ear against it, and a whisper hissed, “Soon.”

On the seventh night, she didn’t sleep. She sat with her flashlight until its beam sputtered out. Darkness swallowed her. When faint light returned at dawn, only one door was left—the one to her room. The rest of the hallway was gone, replaced by blank, suffocating wall.

Alice understood then. The house would take her last.

She tried to fight. She pushed furniture against the door, stacked boxes, prayed to a God she wasn’t sure existed. The air grew heavy, pressing down, thick with unseen weight. The whispers grew louder, a chorus rising from within the walls.

The final night came. The door shuddered as if something pressed against it from the other side. The whispers became screams. The walls pulsed like flesh. Alice clutched her flashlight like a weapon, tears streaming down her face.

When the door vanished, it did not close. It simply ceased to exist. The walls folded inward, the ceiling bowed, and the floor swallowed itself whole. Alice screamed once, the sound muffled instantly as the house consumed the last of itself.

By morning, the countryside was empty. Where the house had stood was nothing but a patch of dirt, smooth and bare, as though no building had ever existed. Birds sang in the trees. The wind carried only silence.

And deep beneath the soil, in a place where walls breathe and voices never rest, Alice counted the numbers over and over. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.