Over my years of tenancy in various apartment buildings, I've learned that most rental buildings are haunted. As a psychic I can attest to the fact that being dead doesn't make you stop talking. Some ghosts are self-contained and gently repetitive; others are persistently expressive and still others, unfortunately, are relentless and obnoxious.

Perhaps it's that so much human drama goes on in rental buildings. Apartment complexes are like revolving doors of life experience; every unit contains a complex human story. There are fights, joyful encounters, births, deaths, lost jobs, found jobs, marriages, first dates, lost loves and painful addictions; the list is endless. So why wouldn't the same be true of other dimensions?

Our human lives, you see, are not so very different from our lives on the astral plane. Really, just as many disembodied spirits wander the halls of these buildings as do flesh and blood people. And they are much like regular folk; except, of course, they are not physically alive.

The last building I lived in was particularly active. Every picture taken in my living room produced an array of fat orbs; knocks were heard, objects moved, chattering voices made themselves known and, without warning, wafts of strange smelling mist appeared throughout the hallways. What was particularly disturbing about this experience, however, was that it escalated and seemed directed at me.

Every few days, at precisely the same time in the late afternoon, a presence would appear in my living room. Now, what I need to explain here is that I do not actually see full-bodied apparitions. Some people do, I do not; rather, I sense the unmistakable presence of someone, feel their life energy and picture them in my mind's eye. Often there are snippets of conversation, flashes of mental messages or emotional facts that also appear.

This person was tall, male and heavy set. He had dark, thick hair and wore a pair of older, white coveralls. Emotionally, he seemed confused and agitated. His eyes were sad and just a little frantic. For a few moments he would wander aimlessly in my apartment as if looking for something and then, just as suddenly, he would fade: never once noticing me but always leaving behind the distinctive smell of French Canadian cigarette smoke.

All of this was fine and did not bother me. I had seen much worse. However, it wasn't long before neighbors began accusing me of smoking in the hallways; something, of course, I did not do and would not have done.

This annoyance persisted over many weeks and the cigarette smell became thicker, longer lasting and farther traveling. Tenants began to assume that, after settling in and getting to know the building, I was wandering the halls and smoking at will. And why shouldn't they; the smell had begun trailing along behind me, wafts of smoke had begun appearing in the hallway near my apartment and a lingering tobacco smell was present in the elevator after I had left.

I decided to have a little chat with my new friend.

"What do you need to tell me," I asked him on several occasions.

He would always remain silent but would become more irritable, as if to acknowledge my presence was aggravating for him. Then he would fade. Each time he appeared he would avoid any direct contact; which, in itself, was quite strange. Usually these types of entities have some emotional circumstance to communicate or explain. He did not; rather, he seemed preoccupied, lost and confused.

And then, suddenly, his appearances stopped. Only the strong smell of the smoke would continue its daily appearances; lingering, wafting through the hallways and causing nasty notes to appear under my door. One particularly sensitive man even offered to help me install weather stripping around my front door.

It was right around this time that I began having re-occurring dreams about a young blond woman knocking loudly at my front door. When I answered the door she stood motionless and glared at me with hateful, angry eyes. She had a sunken, blank quality that I have always come to know as otherworldly. This dream occurred regularly for about a week.

And then, one afternoon while widely awake and quietly writing at my computer, a very creepy feeling came over me and I heard a strange knocking sound in the hallway. I went to the door and peered out the peephole. There was no one there; which came as some relief.

When I looked down at the doorknob, however, it was moving slowly. Again I looked through the peephole: still no one. The doorknob was now turning gently back and forth. Perhaps, I thought, a neighbor was playing a prank.

I opened the door quickly and discovered, indeed, that there was no one there. What I did experience, however, I will never forget. In the hallway I heard a woman's anguished groan. It was a raspy, grating voice that made no sense; as if she could not quite form words and was trying desperately to communicate from a very far distance away. And then I felt the strange sensation of someone rushing passed me into my apartment.

This had to stop. I decided to ask other tenants for the history of the apartment. Had someone died there? Were there unusual circumstances in the past? Did anyone in the building know this man with the dark hair?

At first they were reluctant to offer details but, after several friendly coffee parties and a wealth of homemade cookies, I eventually pieced together what had happened.

The previous tenant was the building's caretaker and he had lived there for only one month. He was a dark, swarthy man from Quebec who had recently moved to the city.

"Why did he live here for only one month?" I asked.

"Well, he died dear," replied the sweet, elderly lady from 107. I smiled knowingly, which may have seemed strange to the neighbors gathered in my apartment.

"One afternoon," continued the lady, "he went for a walk on the beach and the next day he was found dead on the shore. Heart attack, they think."

"He must have smoked a lot then?" I said. "Yes he did, dear," said the lady, "Like a chimney."

After that it all made sense to me. Here was a man shocked by his own death and continually returning home to his new apartment. Sometimes when afraid or deeply confused, we replay normal events in our minds for reassurance or until we can accept difficult circumstances.

I believe this is what happened to my friend in the white coveralls. The smoke smell was a non-verbal form of communication and, being psychic, I was the person in the building most able to listen. The blond woman, I believe, was someone from the other side attempting to help him.

That is, of course, exactly what I did too. Over the next few weeks I did what psychic often have to do: I meditated, offered my energy to the blond woman and helped calm and guide him. It worked.

One afternoon, again while at my computer, I felt the sudden rush of his presence. This time, however, his energy was more vibrant and directed. It briefly swirled around me and then rose about four feet above my head. It whirled there for moment. Then, suddenly there was an audible ‘crack' sound, almost electrical, and in one big ‘whoosh' it completely lifted and he was gone.

Of course, the smell of cigarettes also left and was never a problem again. In fact, several neighbors assumed I had quit smoking and offered their congratulations. I accepted their well-wishes and, thereafter, attended many happy potluck dinners with my neighbors.