West Hollywood Residence – Story by Carrie Genzel

West Hollywood Residence

This story takes place in West Hollywood during one of the periods when I was living in Los Angeles in the late 90s. I had just moved into a new apartment and was going through the breakup of a romantic relationship. Naturally, I was sad about the end of it, adjusting to being alone again and settling into a new space at the same time.

One evening, I was sitting at my desk talking on the phone with a friend. I had my elbow propped up, holding my cordless phone, leaning into the conversation. I had started crying when I suddenly felt something very distinct, an icy cold hand gently caressing the hand holding the phone.

It shocked me. I screamed and threw the phone across the room.

My friend, still on the line, was alarmed. I picked the phone back up and said, “Oh my gosh, somebody just touched my hand.” But I knew no one was there. I was facing a mirror that reflected the entire room. No one else had keys to my apartment. No one had access.

And yet I had absolutely been touched.

Despite the coldness of it, the sensation didn’t feel threatening. It felt comforting. Almost like someone saying, It’s okay. You’re going to be okay.

My first thought was that maybe it was my grandfather or another male family member who had passed, someone trying to comfort me during a painful moment.

But the activity didn’t stop there.

Over the following days and weeks, more things began happening. I had a dog at the time, and she started reacting to things I couldn’t see. She’d watch the hallway as if someone was walking there. Sometimes she’d stare at the ceiling for long stretches, growling occasionally, other times wagging her tail like someone was playing with her. There were even moments when she’d suddenly jolt awake as if someone had poked her in a playful way.

I also experienced sudden icy bursts of air in the shower more than once, like someone stepping close behind me. And there were nights when I’d feel what seemed like someone sitting or lying down on the bed beside me.

One recurring thing was the sound of metal tapping on my canopy bed frame. In my mind, I pictured a gold ring tapping against the metal, almost like someone trying to get my attention. I kept seeing a simple gold wedding band.

That image stuck with me.

I began wondering if whoever this was might be connected to the building. It wasn’t a new apartment complex, probably built in the 60s or 70s, and plenty of people had lived there before me.

But what struck me most was emotional. Whenever I sensed this presence strongly, I’d feel a wave of sadness that didn’t feel entirely my own. Sometimes it was intense enough that I’d cry unexpectedly. It felt like I was picking up on someone else’s unfinished grief.

I started speaking out loud occasionally, asking:

“Who are you?”
“Is there something you need to say?”
“Is there something unfinished?”

One day, I actually saw him. A full-bodied apparition stood briefly in the doorway leading to the hallway where I’d often heard movement. He was an older man. I didn’t recognize him. I only saw him once, but it was enough.

For some reason, the name Paul came to me. I have no idea why. It just felt right. So I started calling him Paul.

Around that time, my acting career had me traveling constantly between Los Angeles and Vancouver, often every two or three weeks. On one trip I’d been gone about three weeks. When I returned to my apartment, I noticed dust had accumulated, which made sense.

But sitting on one surface was what looked like an upside-down happy face drawn in the dust with a finger.

No one had been in my apartment.

I remember asking aloud if that was Paul, if he was trying to communicate something.

Then something even stranger happened.

On another trip to Vancouver, I was on the phone with my dad before leaving. Jokingly, on speakerphone, he said, “Paul, if you’re listening, you’re welcome to come up to Vancouver for a barbecue.”

I went to Vancouver as planned. Just before heading back to L.A., my agent called, telling me not to leave. I had a callback the next day, and producers wanted to see me again. So I turned around and went back to my parents’ house.

When I got there, I went upstairs to put my bags down. The bathroom I was using, which only I used, had all the towels messed up. Normally, they hung neatly in a straight line. I asked my parents if they’d been up there. They hadn’t.

Then my dad called me downstairs.

There, stuck in the corner of the television screen, was a piece of my hair. And in a thin layer of dust on the screen was another upside-down smile.

At the same time, my dad mentioned hearing what sounded like a man clearing his throat in the foyer earlier. He went to check, and no one was there.

This went on for years.

Eventually, while in Vancouver again, my mom suggested I talk to a friend of hers with psychic abilities. I downplayed everything at first, saying it was probably nothing.

But she pressed gently.

She asked who I thought it might be. I said I didn’t trust my imagination. I’m a storyteller. I didn’t want to invent meaning where none existed.

She asked me to say it anyway. She wrote something on a piece of paper first, folded it, and placed it on the table.

I finally said, hesitantly, that because of the gold wedding band image and the emotional pull, I wondered if maybe, in another lifetime, he had been my husband. That maybe there was something unfinished.

She smiled and told me to open the paper.

It said: Your husband.

That moment gave me chills.

Eventually, I moved out of that apartment. The activity faded. I never definitively learned what Paul wanted to communicate. Maybe he tried, and I missed it. Maybe he was simply there to comfort me during a difficult chapter of my life.

Sometimes when I’m investigating or working with mediums now, I wonder if he might come through one day. I still think about him occasionally.

Maybe Paul just helped me through heartbreak.

Maybe there’s more to the story.

Either way, I’ve never completely stopped wondering.