The building was an old, tumble down, somewhat Greco-Roman Spanish Mission looking affair, and I think at one point it had been a church. We had run there through the typical types of horrors that haunted dreams and bad fantasy novels. (Or, perhaps, I had just been shopping at the market in Turner, Oregon where I grew up, and the church was just the old stone one that had been torn down to make a retirement home.
In spite of, or maybe because of, its disrepair, the old church's little foyer had a strong turn undead spell on it. I also had a small crucifix, made out of bone. (I wondered about why such a grizzly constructed device would still be holy).
A skeleton came shambling up to me, and looked confused as it hit the aura repelling it. Wishing to repel it further, I took out my crucifix and waved it at it. The skeleton looked up at me conversationally, and said "Oh, the crucifix doesn't work on skeletons, only other undead, but the turn undead spell still does." Comforted, I retreated back in the the church.