Well, if you're going to sleep in a creepy old mansion, the least you can do is sleep in it comfortably, right? So you pick the master bedroom, which affords you all the comforts you'd expect in a fancy mansion of this size.

You sort of expect an old mansion like this to be haunted, so you chuckle to yourself and say "Alright, ghosts, I'm staying here tonight, but I'm not here to hurt you, so I'm sure we'll get along just fine," as you prepare for bed. You're really not afraid at all, expecting any ghosts encountered to be the friendly remnants of your uncle's spiritual energy, and fall asleep quite soundly, until you are woken in the middle of the night by a most disturbing noise.

Your eyes flick open as you hear a ghostly moan--a pair of them in fact--but it's not quite what you'd expected. Rather than the wailing moan of a soul in pain, this is, well, the erotic moan of a ghost experiencing severe pleasure. You recognize the spectral, slightly echoey voices of your Great Aunt and Uncle, apparently replaying a serious session of "getting it on", and by the sound of the voices, they still got up to being a bit randy with each other at a disturbingly elderly age.

You feel as if you're just about to vomit as you hear the sound of wrinkled ghostly flesh slapping against even more wrinkled ghostly flesh when suddenly the bed starts to bounce up and down, a spectral force rhythmically pushing down on it, the mattress squeaking with every push.

"Oh god!" you exclaim, trying to get up, but you realize with sudden horror that YOU CANNOT! It seems that there is a spectral weight on top of you, forcing you down, depressing you further into the bed with every bounce of the mattress. "Oh sweet holy god, they're right on top of me!" you think, unable to escape, unable to move, eyes wide open in utter terror as these invisible ghostly relatives of your re-enact their sex life right on top of you.

The atrocity continues apace for minutes, hours, years, you have no way of knowing how much time has passed, as your Uncle had no alarm clock in this room and you cannot reach your watch on the nightstand, but it seems like a much longer time than you'd expect from two people so old. You resign yourself to a ruined sex drive and a life of constant mental therapy--but wait! You can move your arm slightly, oh so slightly, and maybe, just maybe--YES! You managed to grab the pillow, and if you can twist your arm around just right under the oppressive ghostly weight--SUCCESS! You get the pillow over your face as the weight of the ghosts holds it in place for you, pressing into your face and blocking your air passages until finally, the ecstasy of sweet release. I'm talking about you dying here, not the ghosts finishing up. No, they keep going at it for a good long time after you've gone cold.

ENJOY THE AFTERLIFE! GOD KNOWS THAT
SOMEONE SURE AS HELL IS! START OVER!