"Yes, these are the original manuscripts you asked for."
Under the dim lighting, the bookstore owner did not notice anything strange about the old man's expression. He carefully lifted the box from the safe, placed it on the nearby table, gently dusted it off, and gestured for him to proceed.
"All of Howard Phillips Lovecraft's surviving manuscripts are here, including some creature drawings he made himself. Just as you requested."
The old man eagerly took the box, opened it with somewhat rough movements, pulled out the yellowed pages inside, and rapidly flipped through them.
"How wonderful."
He murmured in admiration. With his back to the bookstore owner, the red glow in his eyes lit up once more.
The plump owner leaned over from behind him and said with a flattering smile, "Then you must really love his work, sir? Honestly, although these fantastical stories read like a madman's ravings, their portrayal of horror is a different kind of artistic success."
"Hm? No, I have only had the honor of reading one of his stories—his own story." The old man laughed. What he held was correct; it was the "key" he had been searching for.
"Then why were you so eager to find these manuscripts? You did not even bargain over the price. This is five million US Dollars." The bookstore owner adjusted his glasses, utterly perplexed.
After all, the old man's rapid page-turning did not look like reading. It looked more like he was searching for something tucked among the pages.
But it was already too late. The white-bearded old man turned around with a vicious grin. "No, dear Mr. Buryman, I have no interest in possessing these stories. My only interest is in seeing those within the stories regain their freedom!"
As he spoke, a strange crimson-purple radiance rose