A/N: Longest chapter yet! We're almost at the end. Disclaimer: Characters and universe belong to Jonathan Stroud. Music lyrics from A. W. Mozart's Requiem in D minor.

La-crimo-sa di-es il-la

qua re-sur-get ex fa-vi-la

ju-di-can-dus ho-mo re-us

The voices rose up all around us—a ghostly choir. I didn't ask Lockwood or George if they heard it, too; it was evident by their sudden pallor that they did.

La-crimo-sa…

It was hard to think. The music seemed to suck all my thoughts out through my ears. I couldn't even hear my inner voice, the one that so often whispered life-saving intuition. All I could hear was the music, that haunting melody, swelling and fading again and again through the loops of time…

Trying hard to ignore it, I asked, "Where do you think it's coming from?"

"Hard to tell," said George. "Sounds like it's coming from all around…"

"But there's no manifestation. There was a Phantasm upstairs, though, perhaps…" Lockwood trailed off, his expression going slack.

They were all around us.

Multitudes of ghosts, clustered in amongst the genteel furnishings of the parlor, glowing palely, their forms made yet more faint by the sliver of moonlight shining through the heavy drapes of the French windows. They were toe-to-heel, shoulder-to-shoulder, wall-to-wall. Some were wedged into the furniture. They came right up to the edge of the iron chain, jostling each other for space. Their numbers continued into the hallway beyond.

They were all singing.

Huic ergo parce deus…

Looking at them head-on, it was impossible to distinguish one wispy form from another; it was like gazing into a mass of twisting smoke. I used the old trick of looking away, then glancing through the corners of my eyes. Even so, I could only distinguish the few closest to me. The rest seemed to shift and blur constantly, and my eyes ached when I tried to get a clearer look.

Directly opposite me stood a gentleman in a greatcoat. His eyes were deep wells of darkness. I couldn't look at him for very long. Beside him was an old woman wearing a flowered apron. Just beyond Lockwood's elbow was a young couple. The man's hair was slicked back, and the woman wore a pale pink shift dress, similar in style to something Marissa Fittes might have worn in her youth. Perhaps I was imagining it, but I thought their faces might have been tinged with blue.

La-crimo-sa…

"It's the owners," I whispered. "They're the owners who died."

"Killed," George corrected, also whispering, "They were all killed."

"Good God," said Lockwood.

Something was bothering me. "They weren't here before. They weren't. How did they do that? Just suddenly appear?"

George was shaking his head. "I don't like this. It doesn't feel right. Look how many there are! Nothing I read indicated there could be so many...it's more than just the owners, this is massive! And then the Phantasm upstairs…Nothing makes sense."

"And why are they singing?" It was really starting to get on my nerves. The melody was dark, oppressive, and seemed to weigh as heavily as malaise.

"Lockwood," said George, "how are we going to get out of here?"

Lockwood didn't reply immediately. His dark eyes flickered back and forth, assessing. Finally, he turned back to us, flashing his megawatt smile—the one he used on Inspector Barnes, on irate tax collectors, on me and George while trying to wheedle us into a particularly bad idea. At the sight of that grin, I had a premonition of dread.

"Why, we're not going to leave." He said this as if it was the most logical conclusion in the world.

Lacrimosa…

George and I gazed at him. Lockwood's grin wilted slightly. "Lucy, you're doing that scary thing with your eyes."

"Too right I am! What do you mean, we're not leaving?"

"Yeah," added George. "You can't mean we'll stay the night here. They'll only get stronger as the night goes on, and the chain might not be enough to stop them."

I nodded. "That's exactly right. Lockwood, we really should leave. Tonight was supposed to be observation. We're not equipped to handle something on this scale."

"Yes, I know, and that's all very well," said Lockwood, "but do either of you see a way out?"

We turned back to gaze at the deadly sea of pale, shining forms. Unfortunately, he had a point. The choir has closed ranks. Perhaps if we could cut a path through them—? No. Salt wouldn't do it. Iron might have, but even if we'd manage to throw enough canisters to clear a path, we'd still have to contend with the rest—the ones out in the hallway. I'd no doubt they'd converge on us the second we made a move. And flares—well, we couldn't use them in a confined space like this. My bank account was still protesting from the last time we'd tried.

We were stuck.

Pie Jesu domine…

"Alright," I conceded, resisting the urge to cover my ears against the music. "But if we get an opening, we leave immediately."

"Seconded," said George.

"Agreed," nodded Lockwood.

"Getting awfully close to a democratic process, this," quipped George.

Lockwood laughed. "Whoever said we weren't a democratic outfit?"

"You did," George replied.

"Yes…that was meant to be ironic."

"Sarcastic."

"No, I'm sure it's ironic."

"Really? A few months ago, you still didn't know the difference."

"Yes, well I've done some research, and now—"

"Will you two please shut up?" They looked around at me, startled.

"Right-o, Luce. Sensed something, have you?" Lockwood had edged closer to me and was now looking around, alert, hand on his rapier.

"Maybe…" I tilted my head. It was hard to hear under the blasted singing, but I thought I heard another, subtler psychic noise. A crackling, or a hissing. What's more, the awful prickling in my head was back. "I think something's coming."

Suddenly, the music swelled.

-ACRIMOSA DIES ILLA

QUA RESURGET EX FAVILLA

JUDICANDUS HOMO REUS

The ghosts were looking straight at us, their haunted eyes intent, their faces full of pale fire, like the cast of some demented musical. Their mouths were moving faster and faster, their arms raising; the crowd was pressing closer. One of them tried to cross the iron line but rebounded with a green flash of ectoplasm.

"They're getting antsy," muttered Lockwood.

"Temp's dropping," declared George, "fast!"

Ghost fog was coagulating in the corners of the room, roiling through the crowd of apparitions and licking at our iron boundary. The air was thick with malaise.

DONNA EIS

REQUIEM

And then it happened. The singing stopped. The room went black.

The little light streaming in from the windows was smothered. Even the faint ghost light of the phantom choir seemed to dim. Suddenly I was hyper-conscious of our breathing, fast and loud in the sudden silence as we gasped in piercingly chill air.

Wait.

I could hear my own pulse thundering in my ears, could hear my own lungs noisily sucking in air. Then there was George on my right, breathing in great, gusty pants. And on my left was Lockwood, taking quick, sharp, almost-controlled breaths. All of that was fine, right, expected.

So then…who did that long, slow, rattling breath belong to?

"Guys," I said, barely whispering, "do you hear that?"

"Hear what?" George hissed back. "Hear what, Lucy?"

"The—the breathing!"

"What breathing?" Lockwood asked.

Light flared, sudden, blinding. I cried out, covering my eyes. I heard a rasp of metal as someone unsheathed their rapier. Beside me, George gasped.

A sigh rippled through the room. The choir of voices recommenced, chanting a low melody, though now they sounded fainter, more distant.

Donna eis

requiem

Donna eis

requiem…

Blinking, I opened my eyes.

The room was preternaturally dark, despite the light flaring before us. The ghost choir was still there, though their forms were now almost impossible to make out. It was clear, though, that they had parted, making way. Their heads were bowed, their hands meekly joined, their blue lips moving faintly in a prolonged chant. It was almost as if they were paying obeisance to the luminous figure now coalescing in our midst.

It was tall. Its height put me in mind of Bickerstaff's ghost: it seemed to flow endlessly upward, looming thinly. But there the similarities ended. While Bickerstaff's ghost had been a dark, cowled figure, this Visitor radiated a bright, piercing light, more intense than any ghost-light I'd ever seen before. Its legs were silvery columns, around which swirled a blinding white robe. Its head, high above, brushed the ceiling; wreathed in wisps of ectoplasm, it glowed greenly, its features indistinct, save the eyes. The eyes were blank, dark, cavernous. There were other details, fainter. There was a suggestion of long, lank hair. Behind its torso, two long shadows extended, shivering, into the void. They remind me, strangely, of wings, grotesque and twisted though they were. Where their sweeping expanse presided, the other Visitors were extinguished, dissolving into wispy fragments and winking out of existence.

The prickling in my head had graduated to a disconcerting jabbing. The tiredness I'd been pushing aside all week suddenly bore down on me in full force. I wanted nothing more than to sink to my knees, to close my eyes. After all, what was the point? We were trapped, stuck in a room full of Visitors, underequipped to handle the most powerful visitation we'd experienced yet. This time, the Skull was in luck; this time, we were surely done for…

No, that was the Visitor talking, leeching away my strength, my hope, my will to survive. I could not submit to its will, I would not. I had survived worse and would endure more. I drew my rapier, listening to the familiar rasp of iron, allowing it to steel my conviction. I exchanged glances with Lockwood and George, taking heart in the determination I saw reflected in their eyes. We were a team, and we were going to get out of this alive.

We stared up at the Visitor.

Dark and abyss-like, its dead eyes stared back.

REPENT!

I reeled, nearly dropping my rapier. Its voice was crushing, like great boulders smashing together, worse than the loudest of thunderclaps. Judging by how Lockwood and George had cringed backward, they had felt it too.

REPENT, FOR YE HAVE SINNED!

We dropped to our knees, clutching our ears, felled as one. Above, the glowing giant loomed, twisting arms and legs at freakish angles, head rolling and careening this way and that. Ectoplasm sparked, dropping off in globby, gray-green bits. A sickening pit formed in my stomach as cold realization struck. It was trying to find a weakness in our boundary.

And then, abruptly, it stopped. The apparition vanished. The choir was silenced. The room fell still.

For a moment, we stood there, stunned.

"What just happened?" asked George.

"I've got no bloody idea," said Lockwood.

Another beat of silence. We stared at each other, unsure what to think.

"Well," said Lockwood finally, "we've got a clear path now. I think we should make a go of it—what is it Luce?"

I'd put up a hand. I had heard something, a faint noise. A voice? No, it was gone.

"Never mind," I said, "I thought—"

A door slammed shut.

We gazed at each other. It was the front door. Hadn't it been shut already?

Footsteps sounded down the hall, clicking purposefully. They paused by the parlor entrance, then continued in, then stopped just after entering.

A chill rattled down my spine. It was all eerily familiar.

"Tony, you in here?"

We exchanged shocked glances.

There, beyond the boundary of our chains, stood a figure that was unmistakably Quill Kipps, from his carrot-red hair, to his glitzed-up rapier, to the familiar annoyed superiority on his thin, woefully freckled face.

We stared at him, jaws agape.

"Kipps?" said Lockwood, disbelieving. "What—"

"Case has been transferred to Fittes now, Tony. I came here to take preliminary readings. What're you lot still doing here? Weren't you notified? Surely you respect that the client has decided to consult…more reliable services. Hanging about after the fact—well, it's a bit pathetic, isn't it? Not to mention illegal." Kipps smirked, an unpleasant expression that highlighted his flaring nostrils and overall sallowness. "Well? What're you standing about for? You're not needed here. Best get out now, while I'm feeling generous, and I won't report you for trespassing."

"Trespassing?" cried George.

"What—I—that is—Excuse me?" Lockwood was, uncharacteristically, floundering.

"That's not Kipps," I cut in firmly, staring Not-Kipps straight in the eyes.

George glanced at me, pale, understanding lighting in his eyes.

Lockwood hesitated, glancing between me and Not-Kipps, the haze clearing from his eyes. "Right. Right, yes, of course."

Not-Kipps fixed me with a puzzled stare. "Julie, is it? I've got no idea what you're on about. Look, you really do need to get out of here before the rest of my team arrives. I won't be able to avoid filing a report on you if you don't leave before then."

"He's not Kipps," I repeated, resolute.

"No," agreed Lockwood, "no, he's not."

Not-Kipps sighed. "Oh, Lucy." Slowly, a smile spread across his face. I had seen Quill Kipps sport many an unpleasant smile, but never had I seen one so thoroughly malevolent. Beside me, George shuddered.

"Repent," the thing said in Kipps' voice, "for you have wronged.

And then it was changing, it's form blinking, futzing, flickering.

Suddenly, Inspector Barnes stood before us.

He was dressed in a brown suit, his moustache as droopy as ever. Beneath his hat, his eyes were dark, blank caverns.

Repent, the thing said in a voice that was not quite Barnes' nor quite its own. Repent for judgment is come.

Lacrimosa…

We were surrounded once more, the throng of ghosts with their somber faces crowding around the Visitor that had created them. Secondary hauntings clustering around a primary manifestation. Classic.

Repent, repent!

Lacrimosa…

The Inspector-Barnes-shaped figure was flaring with light, slowly expanding, weaving and sparking in a familiar dance…

"Right," said George abruptly, "I've had enough of this." He produced yet another spare rapier, took aim, and lobbed it straight into the expanding heart of the Visitor.

The bright light winked out. A precipitous silence took hold.

"Nice one, George," I said. Lockwood was grinning, clapping George on the back. We stood like that for a few moments, exuberant, triumphant.

Then all hell broke loose.

Note: Mozart's Requiem in D minor is the last thing he ever wrote. The Lacrimosa is a haunting melody that essentially refers to the Christian Judgement Day and resurrection of the dead. According to , it translates as: "Mournful that day/When from the ashes shall rise/A guilty man to be judged./Lord have mercy on them./Gentle Lord Jesus/Grant them eternal rest..." Rather fitting, no?