Zhang Heng pointed at the half-finished manuscript on the old typewriter.

  “Is this your new novel?”


  “No, this is not my novel. In fact, it belongs to a friend of mine. I helped him with some revisions and revisions, and in return, he will pay me some money.”Lovecraft seemed a little ashamed, he added hurriedly, “Usually, I do these jobs for free. The main thing is that recently, the situation at home has been a little difficult. By the way, you said you’ve read my novels. Is it in the newspapers?”


  “Actually, they’re almost everywhere,”Zhang Heng said.

  Lovecraft was a little confused.

  But before he could ask, Zhang Heng pulled out a chair from the side and placed it in front of him. “Let’s talk about the novels you’ve written.”


  “Ah, sure.”The moment he mentioned his novel, Lovecroft, he changed from his usual stiff and reserved self to one of fanaticism, “The things I’m writing…… originated from the horror stories my grandfather told me. “They opened a door for me. Before this, I’ve never seen other words that could stir up human emotions so strongly. What’s more interesting is that in most horror stories, the atmosphere before the monsters appear is the most tense. So, from a very young age, I’ve been thinking, what exactly are we afraid of?”