The Statement of Randolph Carter
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Young Adult (18-35)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
apprehensive as I was, I was nevertheless unprepared for the words which came up from that uncanny vault and accents more alarmed and quivering than any I had heard before. From hardly worn, he had so calmly left me a little while previously, now called from Below in a shaky whisper, more pretentious than the loudest shriek dot If you could see what I'm seeing, I could not answer speechless. I could only wait. Then came the frenzy tones again. Carter. It's terrible. Monsters are 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. Born. What is it? What is it? Once more came the voice of my friends, still horse with fear and now apparently tinged with despair. I can't tell you, Carter. It's too utterly beyond thought. I dare not tell you. No, no man could know it and live great God. I never dreamed of this stillness again. Save for now my incoherent torrent of shuttering inquiry. Then the voice of Warren, in a pitch of wilder consternation, Carter for the love of God, put the slab and 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 again to explain. I heard yet I was able only to repeat my frantic questions around me were the tombs in the darkness and the shadows below me, some peril beyond the radius of 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 positive piteous cry from Warren, beat it for God's sake. Put back the slab and Bt Carter, something in the boyish slang of my evidently stricken companion unleashed my faculties. I formed and shouted a resolution. Warren breaks up, I'm coming down. But at this offer, the tone of my auditor changed, too. 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 no nothing else you can you or anyone can do. Now. The tone changed again, this time acquiring a softer quality as of hopeless resignation. Yet it remained tense through anxiety for me Quick before it's too late. I tried not to heed him, tried to break through the paralysis, which held me in to fulfill my vow to rush down to his aid. But his next whisper found me still held in art in the chains of Stark ***** Carter. Hurry, it's no use. You must go better one than to the slab. A pause, more clicking than the faint voice of Warren. Nearly over now. Don't make it harder. Cover up those dance steps and run for your life. You're losing time so long Carter won't see you again here, warns Whisper swelled into a cry, a cry that gradually rose to a shriek fraught with all the horror of the ages. Curse these all these things. Allegiance, My God booted, Beat it, Do you? 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? And then there came to me the crowning horror of it all. The unbelievable, unthinkable, almost unmentionable thing. I have said that Eon seemed to elapse after Warren shrieked forth his last despairing warning and that only my own cries broke the hideous silence. But after a while, there was a further clicking 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 the mental blank, which reaches to the time of my awakening in the hospital. Shall I say that the voice was deep hollow. I mean, I'm 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 the Unknown cemetery in the Harlow. Amidst the crumbling stones and the falling tunes, the rank vegetation in the miasma vapors heard it well up from the innermost depths of that damnable open sepulchre as I watched amorphous neck riffage is shadows dance beneath in a curse and waning moon. And this is what it said. Drew Fool, Warren is Della.