Original Text	Modernized Text
The Statement of Randolph Carter by Howard Phillips Lovecraft	The Confession of Randy Carter by Howard Phillips Lovecraft Modernized by GPT-4 under the direction of Matt Burnett
I repeat to you gentlemen, that your inquisition is fruitless. Detain me here for ever if you will; confine or execute me if you must have a victim to propitiate the illusion you call justice; but I can say no more than I have said already. Everything that I can remember, I have told with perfect candor. Nothing has been distorted or concealed, and if anything remains vague, it is only because of the dark cloud which has come over my mind — that cloud and the nebulous nature of the horrors which brought it upon me.	I swear to all of you, this inquiry is pointless. Lock me up forever if you must; even execute me if you need to satisfy the illusion you call justice. I've said all I can. I've been completely honest about everything I recall. Nothing has been twisted or hidden. If anything is unclear, it's because the horrors of that night have clouded my memory.
Again I say, I do not know what has become of Harley Warren, though I think — almost hope — that he is in peaceful oblivion, if there be anywhere so blessed a thing. It is true that I have for five years been his closest friend, and a partial sharer of his terrible researches into the unknown. I will not deny, though my memory is uncertain and indistinct, that this witness of yours may have seen us together as he says, on the Gainsville pike, walking toward Big Cypress Swamp, at half past eleven on that awful night. That we bore electric lanterns, spades, and a curious coil of wire with attached instruments, I will even affirm; for these things all played a part in the single hideous scene which remains burned into my shaken recollection. But of what followed, and of the reason I was found alone and dazed on the edge of the swamp next morning, I must insist that I know nothing save what I have told you over and over again. You say to me that there is nothing in the swamp or near it which could form the setting of that frightful episode. I reply that I knew nothing beyond what I saw. Vision or nightmare it may have been — vision or nightmare I fervently hope it was — yet it is all that my mind retains of what took place in those shocking hours after we left the sight of men. And why Harley Warren did not return, he or his shade — or some nameless thing I cannot describe — alone can tell.	Once more, I insist I don't know what happened to Harley Warren, though I think — almost hope — that he is in peaceful oblivion if such a blessing exists anywhere. For five years he was my closest friend, and I was somewhat involved in his terrifying investigations into the unknown. I won't deny that a witness might have seen us together on the Gainsville road, heading toward Big Cypress Swamp, around 11:30 PM on that dreadful night. That we carried electric lanterns, shovels, and a strange coil of wire attached to instruments, I confirm; these items played a part in the singularly horrific scene ingrained in my shaky memory. But regarding what occurred afterward, and why I was found alone and dazed at the swamp's edge the next morning, I must insist that I know nothing beyond what I've repeatedly told you. You claim there's nothing in the swamp that matches the dreadful scene I described. I know only what I saw. Whether it was a vision or a nightmare — I fervently hope it was — that is all my mind retains of those shocking hours after we vanished from the world of men. Only Harley Warren, or whatever has become of him, could truly explain why he didn't return.
As I have said before, the weird studies of Harley Warren were well known to me, and to some extent shared by me. Of his vast collection of strange, rare books on forbidden subjects I have read all that are written in the languages of which I am master; but these are few as compared with those in languages I cannot understand. Most, I believe, are in Arabic; and the fiend-inspired book which brought on the end — the book which he carried in his pocket out of the world — was written in characters whose like I never saw elsewhere. Warren would never tell me just what was in that book. As to the nature of our studies — must I say again that I no longer retain full comprehension? It seems to me rather merciful that I do not, for they were terrible studies, which I pursued more through reluctant fascination than through actual inclination. Warren always dominated me, and sometimes I feared him. I remember how I shuddered at his facial expression on the night before the awful happening, when he talked so incessantly of his theory, why certain corpses never decay, but rest firm and fat in their tombs for a thousand years. But I do not fear him now, for I suspect that he has known horrors beyond my ken. Now I fear for him.	I mentioned before that Harley Warren's bizarre research was familiar to me, and to some extent, I participated in it. From his vast collection of rare and forbidden books, I read all those written in languages I knew; though these were few compared to those in languages I couldn't decipher. Most, I believe, were in an ancient language; and the cursed book that led to the end — the one he carried with him into the unknown — was written in characters unlike any I'd ever seen. Warren never told me what was in that book. Regarding the nature of our studies — must I say again that I no longer fully understand? It seems merciful that I don't, for they were terrible studies, driven more by reluctant fascination than genuine interest. Warren always had a hold over me, and at times I feared him. I remember shuddering at his expression on the night before the dreadful event, as he spoke incessantly about his theory on why certain corpses remain intact for a thousand years. But I don't fear him now, for I suspect he encountered horrors beyond my imagination. Now, I fear for him.
Once more I say that I have no clear idea of our object on that night. Certainly, it had much to do with something in the book which Warren carried with him — that ancient book in undecipherable characters which had come to him from India a month before — but I swear I do not know what it was that we expected to find. Your witness says he saw us at half past eleven on the Gainsville pike, headed for Big Cypress Swamp. This is probably true, but I have no distinct memory of it. The picture seared into my soul is of one scene only, and the hour must have been long after midnight; for a waning crescent moon was high in the vaporous heavens.	Again, I assert that I have no clear idea of our goal that night. Certainly, it was related to the book Warren carried — that ancient tome in undecipherable script that arrived from India a month prior — but I swear I don't know what we expected to find. Your witness claims he saw us at 11:30 PM on the Gainsville road, heading for Big Cypress Swamp. This is likely true, but I do not clearly recall it. The image seared into my soul is of one particular scene, and the hour must have been well past midnight, for a waning crescent moon was high in the hazy sky.
The place was an ancient cemetery; so ancient that I trembled at the manifold signs of immemorial years. It was in a deep, damp hollow, overgrown with rank grass, moss, and curious creeping weeds, and filled with a vague stench which my idle fancy associated absurdly with rotting stone. On every hand were the signs of neglect and decrepitude, and I seemed haunted by the notion that Warren and I were the first living creatures to invade a lethal silence of centuries. Over the valley's rim a wan, waning crescent moon peered through the noisome vapors that seemed to emanate from unheard of catacombs, and by its feeble, wavering beams I could distinguish a repellent array of antique slabs, urns, cenotaphs, and mausoleum facades; all crumbling, moss-grown, and moisture-stained, and partly concealed by the gross luxuriance of the unhealthy vegetation.	The place was an ancient graveyard, so old that its age made me tremble. It was in a deep, damp hollow, overgrown with tall grass, moss, and creeping weeds, and had a vague stench my idle thoughts absurdly attributed to rotting stone. Signs of neglect and decay were everywhere, and I felt haunted by the notion that Warren and I were the first living beings to disturb a lethal silence of centuries. Over the valley's rim, a waning crescent moon peered through the noxious vapors that seemed to rise from uncharted catacombs, and by its dim, flickering light, I could make out a repulsive array of ancient headstones, urns, cenotaphs, and mausoleums; all crumbling, moss-covered, and stained, partially hidden by the unhealthy vegetation.
My first vivid impression of my own presence in this terrible necropolis concerns the act of pausing with Warren before a certain half-obliterated sepulcher and of throwing down some burdens which we seemed to have been carrying. I now observed that I had with me an electric lantern and two spades, whilst my companion was supplied with a similar lantern and a portable telephone outfit. No word was uttered, for the spot and the task seemed known to us; and without delay we seized our spades and commenced to clear away the grass, weeds, and drifted earth from the flat, archaic mortuary. After uncovering the entire surface, which consisted of three immense granite slabs, we stepped back some distance to survey the charnel scene; and Warren appeared to make some mental calculations. Then he returned to the sepulcher, and using his spade as a lever, sought to pry up the slab lying nearest to a stony ruin which may have been a monument in its day. He did not succeed, and motioned to me to come to his assistance. Finally our combined strength loosened the stone, which we raised and tipped to one side.	My first clear memory of my presence in this dreadful necropolis involves pausing with Warren before a nearly obliterated tomb and dropping the burdens we seemed to have been carrying. I now noticed I had an electric lantern and two shovels, while my companion had a similar lantern and a portable phone. We were silent, as if the spot and task were familiar to us; and without delay, we began clearing away the grass, weeds, and earth from the flat, ancient grave. After uncovering the surface, which consisted of three large granite slabs, we stepped back to survey the scene; and Warren appeared to make some mental calculations. Then he returned to the tomb, using his shovel as a lever to lift the slab nearest to a stony ruin that may have once been a monument. He didn't succeed and motioned for me to help. Together, we finally loosened the stone and raised it to one side.
The removal of the slab revealed a black aperture, from which rushed an effluence of miasmal gases so nauseous that we started back in horror. After an interval, however, we approached the pit again, and found the exhalations less unbearable. Our lanterns disclosed the top of a flight of stone steps, dripping with some detestable ichor of the inner earth, and bordered by moist walls encrusted with niter. And now for the first time my memory records verbal discourse, Warren addressing me at length in his mellow tenor voice; a voice singularly unperturbed by our awesome surroundings.	Removing the slab revealed a black hole, from which nauseating gas rushed out, making us recoil in horror. After a moment, we approached the pit again, finding the fumes less unbearable. Our lanterns revealed the top of a flight of stone steps, dripping with some detestable slime from deep within the earth, bordered by wet walls encrusted with saltpeter. For the first time, my memory recalls hearing Warren's voice; his calm tenor seemed unaffected by the eerie surroundings.
"I'm sorry to have to ask you to stay on the surface," he said, "but it would be a crime to let anyone with your frail nerves go down there. You can't imagine, even from what you have read and from what I've told you, the things I shall have to see and do. It's fiendish work, Carter, and I doubt if any man without ironclad sensibilities could ever see it through and come up alive and sane. I don't wish to offend you, and Heaven knows I'd be glad enough to have you with me; but the responsibility is in a certain sense mine, and I couldn't drag a bundle of nerves like you down to probable death or madness. I tell you, you can't imagine what the thing is really like! But I promise to keep you informed over the telephone of every move — you see I've enough wire here to reach to the center of the earth and back!"	"Sorry to ask you to stay up here," he said, "but it would be criminal to let someone with your fragile nerves go down there. You can't imagine, even from what you've read and what I've told you, the things I will see and do. It's nightmarish work, and I doubt anyone without an ironclad psyche could see it through and come out alive and sane. I don't mean to insult you, and God knows I'd love to have you with me, but the responsibility is partly mine, and I can't drag a bundle of nerves like you into probable death or madness. Trust me, you can't imagine what it's like! But I promise to keep you informed through the phone so you'll know every move — I've got enough wire here to reach to the center of the Earth and back!"
I can still hear, in memory, those coolly spoken words; and I can still remember my remonstrances. I seemed desperately anxious to accompany my friend into those sepulchral depths, yet he proved inflexibly obdurate. At one time he threatened to abandon the expedition if I remained insistent; a threat which proved effective, since he alone held the key to the thing. All this I can still remember, though I no longer know what manner of thing we sought. After he had obtained my reluctant acquiescence in his design, Warren picked up the reel of wire and adjusted the instruments. At his nod I took one of the latter and seated myself upon an aged, discolored gravestone close by the newly uncovered aperture. Then he shook my hand, shouldered the coil of wire, and disappeared within that indescribable ossuary.	Those words still echo in my memory, and I remember my protests. I was desperate to follow my friend into those sepulchral depths, yet he remained firm. At one point, he threatened to cancel the expedition if I insisted; a threat that worked, as he alone knew the secret. This I still remember, though I no longer know what we sought. After I reluctantly agreed to his plan, Warren picked up the wire reel and adjusted the instruments. At his signal, I took one and sat on an old, discolored gravestone near the freshly uncovered hole. Then he shook my hand, shouldered the coil, and disappeared into that indescribable tomb.
For a minute I kept sight of the glow of his lantern, and heard the rustle of the wire as he laid it down after him; but the glow soon disappeared abruptly, as if a turn in the stone staircase had been encountered, and the sound died away almost as quickly. I was alone, yet bound to the unknown depths by those magic strands whose insulated surface lay green beneath the struggling beams of that waning crescent moon.	For a minute, I could see the light from his lantern and heard the wire rustling as he laid it down behind him; but the light soon vanished, as if a turn in the staircase had been encountered, and the sound died away quickly. I was alone, yet connected to the unknown depths by those magical strands that lay green under the pale moonlight.
In the lone silence of that hoary and deserted city of the dead, my mind conceived the most ghastly fantasies and illusions; and the grotesque shrines and monoliths seemed to assume a hideous personality — a half-sentience. Amorphous shadows seemed to lurk in the darker recesses of the weed-choked hollow and to flit as in some blasphemous ceremonial procession past the portals of the mouldering tombs in the hillside; shadows which could not have been cast by that pallid, peering crescent moon.	In the eerie silence of that abandoned graveyard, my mind spun the most ghastly fantasies; the grotesque monuments seemed to gain a half-consciousness. Shadows moved in the darker corners of the weed-choked hollow, as if part of some nightmarish ceremonial procession past the decaying tombs; shadows that couldn't have been cast by the pallid moon.
I constantly consulted my watch by the light of my electric lantern, and listened with feverish anxiety at the receiver of the telephone; but for more than a quarter of an hour heard nothing. Then a faint clicking came from the instrument, and I called down to my friend in a tense voice. Apprehensive as I was, I was nevertheless unprepared for the words which came up from that uncanny vault in accents more alarmed and quivering than any I had heard before from Harley Warren. He who had so calmly left me a little while previously, now called from below in a shaky whisper more portentous than the loudest shriek:	I kept checking my watch by the light of my lantern and listened anxiously at the phone receiver; but for over fifteen minutes, I heard nothing. Then a faint clicking came through, and I called out to my friend in a tense voice. Despite my apprehension, I was unprepared for the words that came from that eerie vault in a whisper more alarmed than any I'd ever heard from Harley Warren. The man who had descended so calmly now spoke in a voice more ominous than any scream:
"God! If you could see what I am seeing!"	"God! If you could see what I am seeing!"
I could not answer. Speechless, I could only wait. Then came the frenzied tones again:	I couldn't respond. Speechless, I could only wait. Then his panic-stricken voice came again:
"Carter, it's terrible — monstrous — unbelievable!"	"Carter, it's horrible — monstrous — unbelievable!"
This time my voice did not fail me, and I poured into the transmitter a flood of excited questions. Terrified, I continued to repeat, "Warren, what is it? What is it?"	This time, I managed to speak, flooding the receiver with frantic questions. Terrified, I kept asking, "Warren, what is it? What is it?"
Once more came the voice of my friend, still hoarse with fear, and now apparently tinged with despair:	Once more came my friend's voice, still hoarse with fear, now tinged with despair:
"I can't tell you, Carter! It's too utterly beyond thought — I dare not tell you — no man could know it and live — Great God! I never dreamed of this!"	"I can't tell you, Carter! It's beyond imagining — I can't describe it — no man could know it and stay sane — Great God! I never dreamed of this!"
Stillness again, save for my now incoherent torrent of shuddering inquiry. Then the voice of Warren in a pitch of wilder consternation:	Silence followed, except for my incoherent, trembling inquiries. Then Warren's voice again, in a tone of wild alarm:
"Carter! for the love of God, put back the slab and get out of this if you can! Quick! — leave everything else and make for the outside — it's your only chance! Do as I say, and don't ask me to explain!"	"Carter! For the love of God, put the slab back and run — it's your only chance! Do as I say, and don't ask why!"
I heard, yet was able only to repeat my frantic questions. Around me were the tombs and the darkness and the shadows; below me, some peril beyond the radius of the human imagination. But my friend was in greater danger than I, and through my fear I felt a vague resentment that he should deem me capable of deserting him under such circumstances. More clicking, and after a pause a piteous cry from Warren:	Hearing this, I was able only to continue my frantic questions. Around me, the tombs, the darkness, and shadows; below me, some unimaginable peril. But my friend was in greater danger, and through my fear, I felt a vague resentment that he would expect me to abandon him. More clicking, followed by a pained cry from Warren:
"Beat it! For God's sake, put back the slab and beat it, Carter!"	“Run! For God's sake, put the slab back and run, Carter!”
Something in the boyish slang of my evidently stricken companion unleashed my faculties. I formed and shouted a resolution, "Warren, brace up! I'm coming down!" But at this offer the tone of my auditor changed to a scream of utter despair:	His use of casual slang ignited my senses. I shouted my decision, "Warren, hold on! I'm coming down!" But his voice turned into a scream of utter despair:
"Don't! You can't understand! It's too late — and my own fault. Put back the slab and run — there's nothing else you or anyone can do now!"	"Don't! You can't understand! It's too late — it's my fault. Replace the slab and run — there's nothing else you or anyone can do!"
The tone changed again, this time acquiring a softer quality, as of hopeless resignation. Yet it remained tense through anxiety for me.	His voice softened, tinged with hopeless resignation, yet anxious for my safety.
"Quick — before it's too late!"	"Quick — before it's too late!"
I tried not to heed him; tried to break through the paralysis which held me, and to fulfil my vow to rush down to his aid. But his next whisper found me still held inert in the chains of stark horror.	I tried to ignore him, tried to break free from the paralysis gripping me and rush to his aid. But his next whisper found me still frozen in horror.
"Carter — hurry! It's no use — you must go — better one than two — the slab — "	"Carter — hurry! It's no use — you must go — better one than two — the slab — "
A pause, more clicking, then the faint voice of Warren:	A pause, more clicking, then Warren's faint voice:
"Nearly over now — don't make it harder — cover up those damned steps and run for your life — you're losing time — so long, Carter — won't see you again."	"Almost over — don't make it harder — cover the steps and run — time is short — goodbye, Carter — won't see you again."
Here Warren's whisper swelled into a cry; a cry that gradually rose to a shriek fraught with all the horror of the ages:	His whisper grew into a scream; a scream filled with the horror of the ages:
"Curse these hellish things — legions — My God! Beat it! Beat it! BEAT IT!"	“Curse those hellish things — legions — My God! Run! RUN! RUN!”
After that was silence. I know not how many interminable eons I sat stupefied; whispering, muttering, calling, screaming into that telephone. Over and over again through those eons I whispered and muttered, called, shouted, and screamed, "Warren! Warren! Answer me — are you there?"	Then silence. I don’t know how long I sat in stunned terror; whispering, muttering, calling, screaming into that phone. Over and over I whispered, muttered, called, shouted, and screamed, “Warren! Warren! Are you there?”
And then there came to me the crowning horror of all — the unbelievable, unthinkable, almost unmentionable thing. I have said that eons seemed to elapse after Warren shrieked forth his last despairing warning, and that only my own cries now broke the hideous silence. But after a while there was a further clicking in the receiver, and I strained my ears to listen. Again I called down, "Warren, are you there?" and in answer heard the thing which has brought this cloud over my mind. I do not try, gentlemen, to account for that thing — that voice — nor can I venture to describe it in detail, since the first words took away my consciousness and created a mental blank which reaches to the time of my awakening in the hospital. Shall I say that the voice was deep; hollow; gelatinous; remote; unearthly; inhuman; disembodied? What shall I say? It was the end of my experience, and is the end of my story. I heard it, and knew no more — heard it as I sat petrified in that unknown cemetery in the hollow, amidst the crumbling stones and the falling tombs, the rank vegetation and the miasmal vapors — heard it well up from the innermost depths of that damnable open sepulcher as I watched amorphous, necrophagous shadows dance beneath an accursed waning moon.	And then came the ultimate horror — the unbearable, unimaginable, nearly indescribable thing. I have said that ages seemed to pass after Warren’s last frantic warning, and that only my cries pierced the awful silence. But after a while, there was further clicking, and I strained to listen. Again, I called, “Warren, are you there?” and in response, I heard the sound that has haunted me ever since. I don’t try to explain that sound — that voice — nor can I describe it in detail, for its first words left me unconscious, creating a mental blank that lasted until I woke up in the hospital. Shall I say the voice was deep; hollow; gelatinous; remote; unearthly; inhuman; disembodied? What can I say? It was the end of my experience, and is the end of my story. I heard it, and then knew no more — heard it as I sat petrified in that desolate graveyard amidst crumbling stones and falling tombs, surrounded by rank vegetation and poisonous vapors — heard it rise from the depths of that cursed tomb as I watched shadowy shapes move under an accursed waning moon.
And this is what it said:	And this is what it said:
"You fool, Warren is DEAD!"	“You fool, Warren is DEAD!”