The party is a success. Everyone, even the people with clear agendas for being there, are enjoying themselves immensely. The models are charming, the higher-ups are congratulatory, and Penelope Lane is practically glowing with a sense of smug accomplishment.

And then, at precisely Midnight, the lights go out. There's some awkward silence, a chuckle or two, and murmuring to the effect of 'someone get the lights back on, please?'. When it doesn't happen within a handful of minutes, the tension seems at the breaking point--

But the light comes on again, and things are back to normal.

Except they aren't.

The air in the cathedral is ice-cold, so cold that everyone still in attendance can see their breath. A moment of adjustment to the light later, and it's clear that some people who were in the crypt moments ago are no longer where they used to be. Some attendees will find themselves in entirely different parts of the Cathedral itself, some familiar, some totally unfamiliar. Some which seem like a dream. All of which are freezing, teeth-clattering, goosebump-raising, shiver-down-the-back-of-the-spine cold.

The message is clear. This place does not belong to you. Any of you. And you should probably leave, or else.