Hotel Chelsea (World's Scariest Places Book 6) by Jeremy Bates

Author:Jeremy Bates [Bates, Jeremy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ghillinnein Books
Published: 2020-08-31T22:00:00+00:00

A gooseneck lamp with an emerald shade stood on a chest of drawers. It illuminated a thin man lying on a threadbare mattress, propped into a semi-upright position by lumpy pillows. He wore a leather jacket rolled up at the sleeves, a leopard-print pirate shirt, a black studded belt, black drainpipes, and scuffed motorcycle boots. A padlock on a chain encircled his neck like a choker. His black hair was fluffy and spiky at the same time, in stark contrast to his pale, almost translucent skin. Dark circles beneath his eyes suggested he hadn’t slept in a long time. He was scavenging through an old-fashioned medicine bag on his lap.

“Can’t seem to find my rig,” he mumbled in a London accent. “You haven’t seen—? Ah, here it is!” he added, producing a stiletto-sized glass syringe attached to a hypodermic needle.

Malcolm’s lungs felt like over-inflated basketballs, and he clutched his chest in fear of having a heart attack.

The man was a spitting image of the ex-Sex Pistol performer Sid Vicious.

“Wanna do some Chinese rocks with me, mate? I got us some good shit here.” He stuffed a hand into the pocket of his tight jeans and pulled out a bag of heroin.

Malcolm breathed again, and the pain receded a little from his chest. He tried to speak, but the only word he uttered was, “…Vicious?”

“Vicious? Me? I ain’t vicious. I consider myself to be kindhearted. I love my mum. Now waddya reckon? I already got some dope cooked up.” A Sterno stove sat on the chest of drawers next to the gooseneck lamp. Sid Vicious stuck the hollow hypodermic needle into a tin coffee cup on the burner, loaded the glass syringe with liquified heroin, and shot up into a vein in his left forearm. He grunted, as if he’d been waiting for the fix all day. “You going to get stoned with me or not? These rocks are the real thing, and there’s plenty in the cooker. Take the hypo.”

Malcolm decided he was dreaming. It was unlike any dream he’d had before—everything was too vivid, too real—but it was also too surreal to be reality.

Too surreal? Try impossible, Mac! Sid Vicious has been dead for more than thirty years!

Yet still… Malcolm eyed the dope hungrily.

He took a step forward. Sid gave him a grin that was also a snarl—encouraging, menacing.

He took another step—and noticed the blood in the bathroom. The door was open a few inches. The white tiles inside were smeared bright red.

“Don’t mind her,” the lookalike said. “She’s only trying to get attention again. Cunt’s always trying to get attention.” He held the hypodermic needle out.

Nevertheless, the spell over Malcolm had faltered, and on legs barely able to support his weight, he back-pedaled out of the room.

“Come back, mate, don’t—”

He slammed the door shut, whirled about—and yelped in fear.

“Calm down, son,” a shadowy shape said.

The shadowy shape was a man, just a man, an old man, dressed in loose-fitting blue pajamas. Small and frail, he was hardly threatening.

Malcolm glanced at the door he’d just exited.

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