My Husband Accidentally Invited Ghosts Into Our Apartment, So I Slept With One
It was the best sex of my life. Follow along if you want to know how to get some ghost sex of your own! ALSO: Announcing the return of one of your all-time favorite AJPT characters!
Well, hello, honeys!
I am not as big a bitch today as I was yesterday, if you care to know. What is on my mind today is SEX! Everything I'm writing or talking about ends up being about SEX. And it's great SEX, so that's not a problem.
I want to know if any of you are feeling the same horny way. Because my theories as to why this is happening to me today specifically are:
Bee’s recent horoscope telling us that the 21st, today, will be the best day to have sex all month.
A hormone cycle of crabbiness one day leading to extra testosterone the next day because of that estrogen/testosterone balance thing. (Doctors, feel free to help me out here.)
This story from Genevieve about SEX.
If any of you are feeling the same, let me know because it will help me narrow down the potential causes/factors involved. In order to be able to repeat the experiment, duh.
Anyhow, it’s always a fun day when Genevieve's around. She is a kook™️ to the 10th°, as am I and I think many of you. I don't even bother to read my voice-dictated notes to her before sending them anymore, because she gets me and vice versa and any Siri misinterpretations just enhance the kookiness of the exchange. She has probably published at least a few stories here on topics that were half Siri’s assignment ideas. But know this, she's a Scorpio and she always tells the truth so there is nothing fantastical or magical thinking (I hate magical realism as a genre, by the way) or metaphorical or exaggerated about this sex-with-a-ghost story. It's the damn truth. And I want some of my own.
Before you dive into it, I am here to give you some amazing news. Ani, whose last contribution has been just sitting there on that recommendations list on the right side of your screen from almost a year ago, is coming back to us, yippee yi yay. She was never really gone gone, but now she's back back. Ani brings so much to AJPT in so many ways, just one of those being that her life and her style (but not her lifestyle) is distinctly different from other AJPT staffers. Our psychic connection is also so strong that I texted her about coming back to work here the day she quietly left her last place of employment. Welcome her back and she'll be here to give you a note herself soon enough. I love her and I love you and I love the supportive little group we've got here. I appreciate it and you every moment.
One last thing – I think Genevieve originally intended this to be a Halloween piece, but I'm in general not a fan of “themes” - like issues of magazines where everything is about a certain holiday or even a certain topic like LOVE or HOME or SAND - I just want my regular periodical (haha) with all the variety of diverse material it always has in it. My related marketing advice: Don’t put the word SPECIAL at the top of anything you’re selling. And don't even get me started on my childhood rant about sitcoms going on location. Nice for them, sucks for us.
So when Genevieve sent me this lovely, hilarious, revealing story, I couldn’t wait to run it and did not want to wait for Halloween - also because having sex with a ghost is I believe a non-seasonal occurrence that should not be saved for once a year.
Have fun and let’s talk about sex and hormones and everything else in the comments!
Jane
PS Apologies to Laura and Justine and Jackie and all the rest of you who submitted your wonderful stories and have not gotten an answer back yet. As you’ve heard, I have been operating without all my usual team, so I haven’t been quite as prompt (others who have written here know that I generally respond within 10 minutes of receiving a submission, no matter the crazy hour). But don’t let that deter you new people from sending in your submissions for It Happened To Me’s or Unpopular Opinions or uncategorizable stories to me jane@anotherjaneprattthing.com, because I want them and will get to them. Thank you!
By Genevieve Sage
Let’s just start with the important part: I’m a Scorpio. People always react to that the way Victorians reacted to tuberculosis — half horrified, half impressed. “Oooohhh.” Scorpios, as you know, are associated with sex, death, and the occult, which is honestly an exhausting résumé to maintain.
I’ve always had astrology sign pride. So much so that when I imagined my future husband, I wanted him to be a Scorpio too. Manifestation worked: I married James, a fellow Scorpio. Unfortunately, he’s also a Big-Time Skeptic™. Of everything. Ghosts. Tarot. Sage bundles. Even horoscopes, which is basically astrology’s daily constitutional walk.
Me? I’m the opposite. I grew up quoting Beetlejuice like scripture. (Winona Ryder: also a Scorpio. Coincidence? Please.) “I myself, AM… strange and unusual.” That line hit me hard as a kid. I’d snuck downstairs in my long nightgown to watch The Exorcist through the stairwell slats, completely ruining my sleep for the next five years. I was always drawn to the supernatural — not the slasher kind of horror, but the haunted, the possessed, the possibly real.
So one night, James and I are about to go to sleep in our built-in-1940s-vintage brick apartment (formerly a hotel, i.e., basically a ghost Marriott). I close the bedroom door and James asks why. “To keep the ghosts out,” I say.
And then — and here’s where the haunting began — he, in his infinite Scorpio hubris, yelled:
“COME ON IN, GHOSTS! ALL ARE WELCOME!”
Reader, that is not something you yell in a former hotel built before central air. A lot of souls checked in there. Not all of them checked out.
A few nights later, dead of winter, we’re watching Dateline, when suddenly 4–5 books flew off the bookshelf. Flew. No open windows. No drafts. Just a clean ghostly mic drop. Even James looked at me like: WTF.
Now, we’re book people. Alphabetical-by-author, everything precise. The shelf wasn’t rickety. It was an IKEA tower of literary stability. But suddenly — chaos.
After that, things escalated. The TV started turning on by itself. Alexa played Billie Holiday unprompted. (Always ghost music. Never, tragically, that U2 album Apple forced on us.) A spiritual medicine bag fell off the wall.
And I started to feel things. Like eyes on me at night — as if some spirit was whispering, “Ooooh, she’s up for water… maybe now’s my moment to shine!”
I began to joke to friends that I was “very possessable.” Like, if ghosts are auditioning hosts, I’m the obvious pick — decent apartment, hot husband, sensitive energy.
The general feeling of creepery kept mounting. The air in the apartment felt crowded. My neighbor Chelsea — new mom, empathic, afraid of “ghost runoff” into her place — even got spooked.
And then, there was the ghost sex.
Yes. At first, it was just weird dreams, but soon there was a recurring presence: a blond, 1940s sailor. A spectral Ryan Gosling from The Notebook, but gayer, in the jolly sense, and more… seafaring. I woke up feeling, shall we say…satisfied.
“Did I just have sex with a ghost?” The answer was:
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