Every house keeps its secrets. This one keeps count.

When Dana Whitfield inherits her great-aunt's rambling Victorian farmhouse, it feels like the answer to every problem her family has. Free and clear, no mortgage, no catch. Just an old house with good bones and a little too much quiet.

Then she finds the first number. Carved into the pantry doorframe. Small. Deliberate. Old.

Then a second, hidden behind a shelf someone built specifically to conceal it.

Each number, she discovers, marks an injury. A death. Documented, dated, and precise, going back over a century, carved into the walls in a sequence that shouldn't be able to keep counting on its own.

But it is. And it's accelerating.

As her son starts sleepwalking toward numbers that haven't been carved yet, and her own body begins keeping a debt she never agreed to pay, Dana has to decide how far she'll go to break a pattern her great-aunt spent forty-one years too terrified to challenge alone.

Some houses don't haunt you. They keep a ledger. And they always collect.

A slow-burn supernatural horror novella blending atmospheric dread with visceral body horror, perfect for readers who like their hauntings patient, personal, and impossible to outrun.