[ WP ] A world where people who die turn into objects based on their past life .

There was a deep groan as Stanton pushed against the heavy door. A streak of dust fell from somewhere above him as he cautiously stepped through the doorway. Anxious, but not afraid, he continued forwards, using his hands to steady himself against the shelves as he stepped over scattered Objects. The warm, dull glow of the lamps attached to the walls did little to aid his plight as he looked around. Shelves twice his size loomed over him, lined with fairly small pieces; watches, rings, occasionally books and medals. Dust had apparently made its home here. Carefully, he picked a timepiece up, admiring the detailing on the clock face. It was clear the hands had stopped moving a long time ago. As Stanton replaced the watch, he felt a wash of cold air and shivered, almost feeling the Objects around the room glare at him disapprovingly. 
 
 This was no antique shop. This was the cemetery. 
 
 Stanton had been here before- once. Back then it had been an antique library, and the shelves had been used to stack books, not... people. People in the sense that they had *once been* people; before they passed. Of course, when that happened, they were still people- but in a different form. They became an Object from their past life. There was no telling what that Object might be, but more often than not it was something that person saw every day and had a key connection with. As such, people who became Objects of sentimental value were kept in their family members' homes or communal cemeteries. However, this was more a ghostly graveyard- a place for unwanted and unknown Objects- a place for people who had died alone with no immediate family to take care of their new life. 
 
 Emmett had to be here somewhere. Stanton quickly realised the enormity of the task that laid before him. His uncle could be any one of these objects, and he had absolutely no idea what it might be. Ring … doubtful. Necklace? Unlikely. Watches … Emmett had always been late. He shook his head, skimming his eyes across the shelves for anything at all that might mean something to him. 
 
 But there was nothing. Sighing resignedly, Stanton sat on a wooden stool which had apparently seen better days. It creaked, with one leg giving way to the rotting hinge. Startled, he jerked to one side to steady himself, throwing his hand out to find something to hold onto- a shelf. Slowly drawing himself up, he moved his hand, and as he did, he brushed against something cold and metallic. Moving the stool to one side, he inspected it. It was a key. 
 
 Suddenly, his heart began to race. He ’ d seen this key before. Brimming a shining carbon black, with a small hooked handle and unnatural pins which appeared to match an equally unnatural lock. There was only one letter inscribed on the inside of the hook: *M*. In awe, Stanton reached out and slowly picked it up, holding it to the light and watching it glint lazily. 
 
 `` Sorry Emmett,'' he murmured. `` But you ’ re going to help me solve your murder.'' 
 
 Emmett had become the key to his own vault, which could only mean whatever had been in there had been important to him. Stanton carefully pulled out a velvet cloth from his left pocket and gently laid the key on it before wrapping it up safely. He grimaced. Whatever had been in that vault had also been important to someone else- so much so that they killed his uncle in cold blood for it. 

