Chapter 3: The Secret Game

Three weeks had passed since Liam first opened the casket, and the elderly woman in the blue dress had made her appearance in Tuesday's obituaries—Margaret Whitmore, 78, beloved grandmother who passed peacefully in her sleep. Just as he'd seen her, down to the pearl buttons on her dress and the small purse clutched in her weathered hands.

Now, checking the casket had become routine.

Every morning after Clara left for work, Liam would descend to the basement with his coffee and notebook. He'd started keeping detailed records—sketches of the faces he saw, descriptions of their clothing, estimates of their age. The casket revealed its secrets with clockwork regularity: one vision per day, each showing a different person who would die within 24 to 48 hours.

The game had rules, he'd discovered. The visions always showed the deceased at peace—no violence, no suffering, just the serene faces of those who had crossed over. They appeared in the clothes they'd worn at death, sometimes formal, sometimes casual, but always with that same ethereal tranquility that had first captivated him with Robert Morrison.

Liam had become efficient at his research. A quick sketch in his notebook, followed by careful observation of local obituaries and news reports. Seven confirmed matches so far—Morrison, Margaret Whitmore, a construction worker named Danny Santos, a college student named Amy Chen, an elderly minister, a middle-aged nurse, and yesterday, a businessman from the east side of town.

Each confirmation sent a thrill through him that he couldn't quite name. It wasn't satisfaction exactly, nor was it morbid pleasure. It was something deeper—the intoxicating rush of possessing impossible knowledge, of being chosen to witness secrets that belonged to the realm beyond life.

"You're distracted lately," Clara observed over breakfast, her dark eyes studying him with growing concern. "Is everything okay at work?"

Liam looked up from his eggs, realizing he'd been mentally reviewing yesterday's vision—an older man in a hospital gown, hands folded peacefully over his chest. "Sorry, just thinking about a research project. You know how I get when I'm deep into something historical."

"This isn't like your usual research obsessions." She reached across the table to touch his hand. "You seem... I don't know, secretive? Like you're carrying some big discovery around and can't share it."

If only she knew how accurate that observation was. "It's just a family history thing. Dad brought over some old documents when he dropped off that casket. I'm trying to piece together some gaps in the Carter family tree."

The lie came so easily now. Over the past three weeks, he'd crafted an entire false narrative about genealogical research to explain his distraction and the increasing amount of time he spent in the basement. Clara accepted it because she trusted him, because after four years of marriage she had no reason to doubt his word.

That trust made his deception both easier and more painful.

"Well, maybe you could include me sometime," she said, squeezing his fingers. "I'd love to learn more about your family history."

"Maybe when I get further along," he replied, already knowing he would never allow her near the basement. The casket was his secret, his burden, his extraordinary gift. Some things were too dangerous to share, even with the person you loved most.

After Clara left for school, Liam performed his morning ritual. Coffee in hand, notebook tucked under his arm, he descended to the basement like a priest approaching a sacred altar. The casket waited in its corner, patient and eternal, ready to reveal another glimpse beyond the veil.

He'd grown comfortable with the routine—lift the lid, observe the vision, record the details, close the lid. What had once terrified him now felt natural, even necessary. This was his purpose, his calling. He was a keeper of final secrets, a witness to the great transition that awaited everyone.

The lid opened with its familiar creak.

Today's vision was a young woman, perhaps thirty, with auburn hair styled in a neat ponytail. She wore scrubs—medical scrubs in soft green. Her face was peaceful, almost smiling, as if she'd found something wonderful in her final moments. A small gold cross necklace glinted at her throat.

Liam sketched quickly, capturing the curve of her jawline, the gentle arch of her eyebrows, the way her hands were positioned over her heart. Beautiful, even in death. They were all beautiful in their final peace, he'd noticed. Whatever took them—illness, accident, the simple stopping of an aging heart—the casket only showed him their serene aftermath.

By lunch, he'd researched every medical facility within fifty miles, cross-referencing staff directories with his sketch. No matches yet, but he'd learned patience. The universe operated on its own timeline, and his role was simply to observe and record.

The afternoon brought a faculty meeting that dragged on for two hours. Liam sat in the conference room, half-listening to discussions about budget allocations and curriculum changes, while his mind wandered to the basement. Was the woman still there, waiting peacefully in her eternal sleep? Or had she faded away, making room for tomorrow's vision?

He'd tested the casket's patterns extensively. The visions appeared for exactly twenty-four hours, visible every time he opened the lid during that window. After that, they vanished, replaced by empty satin until the next day's revelation. It was precise, reliable, almost scientific in its consistency.

"Liam?" Dean Harrison's voice cut through his wandering thoughts. "Your input on the new archives digitization project?"

"Right, yes." He scrambled to focus on the present. "The historical documents should definitely be prioritized. Many of our oldest materials are deteriorating faster than we can preserve them."

The meeting finally ended at four-thirty. Liam practically ran to his car, eager to return home and check the evening news. If his pattern held true, the woman in scrubs would appear in tomorrow's obituaries, and he could add another confirmation to his growing collection.

But when he arrived home, Clara's car was already in the driveway. She usually stayed late on Wednesdays for parent conferences. His carefully planned evening routine would have to wait.

"Hey, you're home early," he said, finding her in the kitchen surrounded by takeout containers.

"Conferences got rescheduled." She looked up with a strained smile. "I thought we could have dinner together for once. Feels like I barely see you anymore."

The accusation was gentle but pointed. Liam realized he'd been so absorbed in his secret obsession that he'd been neglecting the most important person in his life. Guilt twisted in his stomach, but it was quickly overshadowed by anxiety about his interrupted routine.

"That sounds perfect," he said, kissing her cheek. "Let me just wash up."

They ate Chinese takeout at the kitchen table, and Clara told him about her students, about the upcoming spring concert, about her sister's pregnancy news. Liam nodded and responded appropriately, but part of his attention remained fixed on the basement door. He needed to check the casket again, needed to confirm the woman was still there, needed to study her face one more time before she faded away.

"You're doing it again," Clara said softly.

"Doing what?"

"That distant thing. Like your body's here but your mind is somewhere else entirely." She set down her chopsticks and leaned forward. "Liam, what's really going on? And don't tell me it's just research. I know you better than that."

The concern in her voice almost broke his resolve. For a moment, he considered telling her everything—about the casket, the visions, the impossible knowledge he'd been gathering. But how could he explain something so far beyond normal experience? How could he make her understand without sounding completely insane?

"I'm sorry," he said instead. "You're right, I have been distracted. This family history project has really gotten under my skin. You know how I get when I discover something unusual."

"What kind of unusual?"

He improvised quickly. "Records that don't match up. Dates that seem wrong. It's like there are these gaps in the Carter family timeline that someone deliberately obscured."

Clara's expression softened slightly. "Is that why your dad seemed so strange when he dropped off that casket? Like he was afraid of it?"

"Maybe. I think there might be some family secrets that got buried over the years. Dark stuff that previous generations didn't want preserved."

It wasn't entirely a lie, Liam realized. There were definitely family secrets, and his father's fear had been genuine. The casket was clearly something that had been passed down through generations of Carters, each one burdened with knowledge they couldn't share.

"Well, maybe you should talk to your father about it," Clara suggested. "Instead of trying to figure it out on your own."

"Maybe," Liam agreed, knowing he had no intention of involving his father. The old man had been desperate to pass the casket along, to free himself from whatever curse it represented. Liam wouldn't burden him with questions about something he was clearly trying to forget.

They finished dinner and watched a movie together, cuddled on the couch like they used to do before the casket entered their lives. Clara fell asleep against his shoulder during the second act, and Liam found himself studying her peaceful face. Her breathing was deep and regular, her expression serene in sleep.

For a terrifying moment, she looked exactly like the visions in the casket.

He shook the thought away, but it lingered like a shadow at the edge of his consciousness. The casket showed him strangers, people he'd never met and never would meet. It wouldn't show him Clara. It couldn't.

Around midnight, after he'd carried her to bed and tucked her in, Liam finally made his way to the basement. The woman in scrubs was still there, unchanged, waiting with that peaceful smile. He studied her face one more time, adding details to his sketch, then closed the lid with something approaching reverence.

Tomorrow there would be another vision, another glimpse beyond the veil. Another confirmation of his extraordinary gift.

As he climbed the stairs, Liam caught himself smiling. The game was becoming more sophisticated, more meaningful with each passing day. He was no longer just a passive observer—he was a chronicler of the divine transition, a keeper of humanity's final secrets.

Soon, he would need to expand his research beyond simple obituary matching. There had to be patterns in the deaths, significance he wasn't yet seeing. The casket had chosen him for a reason, had revealed its power to him specifically.

He just needed to understand why.