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

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Hotel Chelsea (World's Scariest Places Book 6) Kindle Edition

4.3 out of 5 stars 275 ratings
Book 6 of 6: World's Scariest Places

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Editorial Reviews

Review

"Bates brings the atmosphere" ‒ Publishers Weekly on Hotel Chelsea

"Creatively creepy and sure to scare" ‒ The Japan Times
on Suicide Forest

"Jeremy Bates writes like a deviant angel I'm glad doesn't live on my shoulder" ‒ Christian Galacar, author of GILCHRIST


"Jeremy Bates knows scary. You're going to have a good time with whatever he writes" ‒ Jeff Menapace, author of BAD GAMES

"[Bates] is the real deal. He is a bit of a mix of Stephen King and Richard Laymon. You won't regret your purchase" ‒ Amazon Top Contributor

"I keep hearing this author being compared to the likes of Stephen King or Dean Koontz. I think [he] should be known for his OWN style of writing" ‒ Amazon Reviewer

"Will remind readers what chattering teeth sound like" ‒ Kirkus Reviews on Suicide Forest

"Voracious readers of horror will delightfully consume the contents of Bates's World's Scariest Places books" ‒ BookLife Prize on The Catacombs


"A short, sharp shocker" ‒ Publishers Weekly
on Black Canyon

"The perfect antidote to a restful night's sleep, The Sleep Experiment
is a fast-paced thriller that will keep the pages turning late into the night" ‒ Steven Sayers, author of THE SOUL DWELLER

"Thriller fans and readers of Stephen King, Joe Lansdale, and other masters of the art will find much to love in highly recommended, action-packed read" ‒ Midwest Book Review
on Island of the Dolls

"Reads like a combination of Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and Clive Barker" ‒ Midwest Book Review on Mountain of the Dead

"A page-turner in the true sense of the word" ‒ HorrorAddicts on Mountain of the Dead

"Will make your skin crawl" ‒ Scream Magazine on Island of the Dolls

"Shocking" ‒ Booklist on White Lies

"Told with an authoritative voice full of heart and insight" ‒ Richard Thomas, Bram Stoker nominated author on The Catacombs

"I have long been a fan of Dean Koontz, Stephen King, and Frank Peretti and I feel confident that I can now add Jeremy Bates to that list" ‒ Reader Views on Mountain of the Dead


"A blistering rustic tale that takes the reader outdoors and to the deepest inner recesses of the human heart" ‒ Writer's Digest
on Black Canyon

"A horror writer to watch" ‒ True Review

"Bates offers a truly chilling tale that reminds readers that humans can be the worst type of monster to fear, after all" ‒ BookLife Prize on Helltown

"An ice-cold thriller full of mystery, suspense, fear" ‒ David Moody, author of HATER and AUTUMN on Mountain of the Dead


"Would make a great screenplay!" ‒ Suspense Magazine
on The Taste of Fear

"Bates doesn't miss a trick" ‒ Glenn Kleier, New York Times bestselling author on White Lies

"Bates knows how to creep into his reader's mind and toy around" ‒ Horror Palace on Island of the Dolls

"Something to give you chills before you go to bed" ‒ San Francisco Book Review on The Catacombs

"Excellent!" ‒ Andrew Peterson, international bestselling author of FIRST TO KILL on Suicide Forest

"Jeremy Bates is a skilled weaver of nightmares" ‒ Ambrose Ibsen, author of THE HAUNTING OF BEACON HILL

"Spellbinding" ‒ Bestsellersworld on White Lies

"Will delight horror fans who want their novels steeped in psychological suspense as well as action" ‒ Midwest Book Review on The Catacombs

"Invites you to read it in one sitting" ‒ Hellnotes on Suicide Forest

From the Author

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Prologue
The young woman hurried along West 23rd Street, her hands gripping fistfuls of her dress so the hem didn't drag on the dirty sidewalk.
It was the spring of 1884, late evening,the air so muggy it felt like a physical force. Recently installed electric incandescent streetlights lit the New York City darkness with an artificial moonlight. Horse hooves and carriage wheels clacked against the granite-block street. Shouts and laughter floated down from the roofs of grimy tenements,competing with the boisterous sounds spilling out of gaslit saloons and restaurants. Factory workers, ditch diggers, stone cutters, and men and women from all walks of life bustled this way and that, going about their nightly business.
When the woman arrived at the newly built Chelsea Association Building between Seventh and Eighth Avenues, she released her grip on her skirt and brushed straight the pleats. Swiping an errant lock of blonde hair away from her blue eyes, she titled her head to look up at the mammoth Victorian Gothic building. The tallest structure in the city, its façade was an assortment of dormer windows, horizontal bands of white stone, and black iron balconies wrought into the shapes of flowers. Asymmetrical chimney stacks poked the starry sky.
Keeping her back straight and her chin lifted, the woman entered the building through the front glass doors.Well-dressed men mingled in the high-ceilinged lobby, which featured mahogany wainscoting and enormous Hudson River School landscape paintings. Through a set of arched doors to the right, upper-class ladies socialized in a frescoed sitting room.
The woman spotted Arthur Schmid right away.He stood in front of a large carved fireplace conversing with a cranky-looking man with white hair and a thick mustache. His eyes met hers for the briefest of moments before breaking contact.
Lips tightening, the woman crossed the lobby to the elevators, pushed the bell for the one to the left of the reception desk, and waited for the terrifying machine to arrive.
 

#
 

Arthur Schmid was a bon vivant and womanizer par excellence. He was also the most fashionable man in New York City, for just last month, after he'd entered the luxurious Hoffman House Baron a Saturday night clad in a cashmere dinner jacket dripping with gold ornamental braiding, tight white trousers, and thigh-high black patent leather boots, the New York Times had crowned him the "King of the Dudes"("dude" having recently come to replace "dandy" to describe an impeccably dressed male socialite). The title was no doubt pejorative, but Schmid embraced it proudly. 
Tonight he was dressed no less fashionably in a crimson tailcoat, a multi-colored waistcoat, a stiff shirt with a spread-eagle Byron collar, and a burgundy cravat. His ever-present monocle was propped between his left cheekbone and brow bone, and a gray silk top hat sat importantly atop his head. This was his third outfit of the day, as he'd already changed twice. He had no qualms changing as many as six or seven times a day, depending on his mood or the social occasion. Finding interesting and new outfits was not difficult, mind you, when one owned five hundred pairs of trousers, five thousand neckties, and more than three hundred tailcoats.
Born fifty-three years ago in 1841 into a de-facto aristocratic family, Schmid had inherited two million dollars on his twenty-first birthday. This fortune had allowed him to spend the majority of his adult life drinking champagne, shopping in the finest department stores,and mingling with other old-money individuals, celebrities, and artists alike.
Now he was enjoying a glass of champagne--his drink of choice--in the magnificent lobby of the Chelsea Association Building with his old friend, Sam Clemens. Clemens, dressed unfortunately in a frumpy white suit and dubious bow tie, was currently on a worldwide lecture tour in an effort to pay back all the debts he had accrued investing unwisely in unproven inventions. He'd moved into the Chelsea Association Building two days ago and had bumped into Schmid in the lobby earlier this morning. They had agreed to meet later for dinner in one of the Chelsea's dining rooms. During their meal beneath gilded fleurs-de-lis and lion-faced gargoyles, a photographer for the Tribune had taken a photograph of them together, which had delighted Schmid, who firmly believed one could never be a victim of too much exposure or fame.
"I wonder what page we will make in tomorrow's newspaper," Schmid remarked thoughtfully as he sipped his champagne.
"I wish you didn't give that damn weasel permission to take our photograph," Clemens griped in his slow drawl.
"Do I look like someone who would pass up the opportunity to be seen with the most popular American writer and raconteur in the world?"
"Bah," Clemens said.
"Oh, come now," Schmid said. "You like the limelight as much as I do, my dear sir. I recommend you try smiling in your next photograph, however. It's all the rage now, and your teeth aren't that bad."
"A photograph is a most important document,"Clemens said with his typical composure and gravity, "and there is nothing more damning to go down to posterity than a silly, foolish smile caught and fixed forever."
Schmid sipped champagne in acquiescence to the man's cantankerous nature. "Are you so far enjoying your life here at the Chelsea?"
"It's an impressive building, I do say."
"Indeed! With every modern convenience available. There's even a long-distance telephone in the manager's office available to all residents."
"I particularly enjoy the elevators. I've been installed up on the sixth floor, and my knees are old and do not fare well with stairs."
"You don't find them too noisy, I hope?"
"Noisy? Hardly. You don't have to hear noise if you don't want to. The only time I hear the elevators is when they stop."
"They have certainly ushered in the era of the tall building. The Chelsea itself is an astonishing twelve stories. I wonder what this city will look like in, oh, another ten years from now?"
"I would temper your optimism about what the future holds, Mr. Schmid. There has already been talk of the city banning the construction of further large residential buildings due to fire and health concerns."
"Poppycock!" Schmid blurted. "Fire? The apartments are separated by cement-filled brick walls three feet thick, and the building's iron girders are sheathed with fireproof plaster. It is virtually impossible for a fire to spread from one residence to the next."
"Six hundred individuals living together under one roof does not concern you?"
"There are two million residents in this city, my dear man. If we're on the precipice of an American Black Death, it will originate in some unsanitary tenement slum, not the Chelsea. Indeed, I suspect the fear motivating our great city leaders is neither fire nor disease but that the intimacy of Parisian-style apartment living will lead the residents to looser moral standards--and you know what I think about that? What happens in the bedroom is none of their goddamned business!" (...end of sample)

Product details

  • ASIN : B083TXWDH3
  • Publisher : Ghillinnein Books (September 1, 2020)
  • Publication date : September 1, 2020
  • Language : English
  • File size : 12749 KB
  • Simultaneous device usage : Unlimited
  • Text-to-Speech : Enabled
  • Screen Reader : Supported
  • Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
  • X-Ray : Not Enabled
  • Word Wise : Enabled
  • Print length : 381 pages
  • Lending : Enabled
  • Customer Reviews:
    4.3 out of 5 stars 275 ratings

Customer reviews

4.3 out of 5 stars
4.3 out of 5
275 global ratings
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Reviewed in the United States on September 26, 2020
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Top reviews from other countries

J. Majury
1.0 out of 5 stars So disappointing.
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on January 24, 2021
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corrine g
1.0 out of 5 stars Not my cup of tea!!!
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on November 15, 2020
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Cicci
1.0 out of 5 stars Crap
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on February 22, 2021
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J Allen
5.0 out of 5 stars Never disappoints
Reviewed in the United Kingdom on December 28, 2020
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Kelly H
4.0 out of 5 stars No checkout at hotel Chelsea
Reviewed in Australia on December 29, 2020
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