Zhang Heng pointed at the half-finished manuscript on the old typewriter.
"Is this your new book?"
"No, it's not mine. In fact, it belongs to a friend of mine. I help him with some revisions and revisions, and in return, he will pay me some money." Lovecraft seemed a little ashamed when he said that, and he hurriedly added, "Usually, I don't get paid for this work. It's mainly because my family has been in a difficult situation recently. By the way, you said you've read about me. Is it in the newspaper?"
"In fact, they're almost everywhere," Zhang Heng said.
Lovecraft was a little confused when he heard that.
But before he could ask, Zhang Heng moved a chair from the side and placed it in front of him. "Let's talk about what you've written."
"Ah, yes," said Lovecraft, who had been stiff and reserved at the mention of himself, "the things I'm writing … originated from the horror stories my grandfather told me. They opened a door for me. Before this, I had never seen any other language that could stir up human emotions so strongly. What's more interesting is that in most horror stories, the atmosphere is the most tense before the monster appears. So, ever since I was young, I've been thinking, what is it that we are afraid of? "
"The oldest and strongest human emotion is fear, and the oldest and strongest fear is the fear of the unknown," Zhang Heng said.
"That's exactly what I wanted to say!" Lovecraft said excitedly. "Imagination, imagination is the key to all of this. In my writing, I have been working to create an atmosphere that can maximize the imagination, instead of describing the things that bring fear. Because no matter how scary the things you describe in words, they will never be as scary as the reader imagines them to be. Besides that, another trick is to make your writing seem as real as possible, so that the reader can relate it to his own life. "
"Sounds effective," Zhang Heng said.
"I also think it should be effective, but I don't know why, but my editor told me that my article doesn't have many readers." Lovecraft said awkwardly. "In fact, I can't support my aunt's and my living expenses with my royalties alone. We've moved several times. I've never liked typing on a typewriter because the noise it makes makes it difficult for me to concentrate. I'm also used to scribbling on a piece of paper when I'm writing. I can't do that with a printer."
Lovecraft sighed. "But now, in order to pass more manuscripts, I've begun to try typing on a typewriter. After all, we've moved several times. If we move again, I'm afraid we'll have to move to the slums."
"This will be a good start," Zhang Heng said.
"I hope so."
A smile appeared on Lovecraft's pale face. After that, he seemed to think of something again. He opened the drawer of his desk and took out a half-empty bottle of red wine.
"I didn't expect to have guests at home, and I didn't prepare anything. This is my grandfather's red wine. At that time, my family was still prosperous, and I used to live in a large mansion surrounded by servants. But now, all I have is this bottle of wine." Lovecraft laughed at himself.
"Why are you and your aunt the only ones at home? Where are your parents?" Zhang Heng asked.
"My father … suffered from some mental illness. He had a mental breakdown in a hotel in Chicago, and he died in a mental hospital. My mother, she lived a little longer, but she also died later. Not long after that, I met my wife in Boston, and we lived together for a few years. Unfortunately, in the end, her hat shop went bankrupt, and we divorced. After that, I returned to Providence with Aunt Anne. "
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Then, a strange expression appeared on his face as he muttered to himself, "Aunt Anne is calling me for dinner again. That's strange. She just called me fifteen minutes ago."
"Do you want to open the door first?" Zhang Heng asked, taking a wine glass from Lovecraft's hand.
"No, Aunt Anne will open the door," Lovecraft said. "I just need to focus on my creation."
Not long after he said that, the sound of the door opening came from outside.
After that, a dining cart was pushed in. The waiter who delivered the food seemed to have gotten used to the strange situation in the house. He did not say a word throughout the whole process. After delivering the food, he immediately pushed the dining cart out of the room, closing the door before he left.
"Come and eat with us," Lovecraft said enthusiastically. "As long as you don't mind the poor food at my house."
However, Zhang Heng did not get up.
He looked at the man in front of him and asked, "How long have you been suffering from mental illness? Did you inherit it from your father?"
Lovecraft was taken aback, and after a while, he showed a somewhat bitter smile. "How did you know? My father … After he died, I was indeed depressed for a while. No, to be precise, I would have a mental breakdown from time to time. I couldn't complete my high school studies, so I couldn't get into the university I wanted to go to. But now I feel much better. Dr. Green has prescribed me medicine, and I have been taking it."
Lovecraft pointed to a small medicine bottle on the table.
Zhang Heng opened it and took a look, but it was already empty at some point.
This was not surprising. Based on Lovecraft's complexion and living conditions, he had no more money left in his house. He couldn't even fill his stomach. There was no reason for him to continue taking the medicine prescribed by the doctor.
At the last stage of his life, this Terrorist had reached the end of his rope and was at the end of his rope. At the same time, he had been suffering from mental problems. He might not even be able to tell what was reality and what was an illusion. He was just like the believers who were influenced by Cthulhu and gradually lost their sanity.
Zhang Heng suddenly understood how the monsters in the city under the ice were born. He looked at the thin and sickly looking House of Horrors in front of him and said, "There's no need to eat. I have something else to do today."
Lovecraft's expression darkened when he heard Zhang Heng's words. Although he had been locking himself in his room, it was obvious that deep in his heart, he yearned for friends, especially friends who would recognize him. Although he and Zhang Heng had not known each other for long, when Zhang Heng said that he appreciated his talent, Lovecraft had already decided to treat this stranger as a friend. So when Zhang Heng rejected his invitation to eat together, he was extremely disappointed.
However, before he could say anything, Zhang Heng continued, "You said that you are helping other authors to revise their novels. It just so happens that I have some writing problems. If it's not too much trouble, can I continue to visit you later?"
"Of course," Lovecraft said happily.
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