The Curious Case of Lee Woodgate & Josiah Jeniker

Pentacle

Lee Woodgate was born in Cotgrave, Nottinghamshire in 1970. An only child, he grew up in an impoverished household deeply affected by the recession of the early 1980s. Due to these circumstances, the young boy missed out on many opportunities growing up. Resigned to focusing solely on his studies, he passed his GCSEs and ‘A’ levels with flying colours, and then went on to study English Literature at the University of Leicester. He left in 1993 with a first class degree. His tutors remember him as a hard-working student, blessed with a motivation that set him apart from his peers.

His parents beamed with pride at his graduation.

After university, Lee spent two years in the Philippines, teaching English as a foreign language. On his return, he settled back in Nottingham, renting a small flat in Burrows Court, Sneinton.

In 1995 he was interviewed for a teaching position at the local primary school. Easily the best candidate, he was offered the job and was due to start at the beginning of the next school year, on Tuesday the 5th of September.

He never arrived for his first day.

In fact, he would not be seen for the next ten years.

Flats1

6th June 2012

Lisa Jolley is a large, stocky woman with a firm handshake and an infectious smile. Indeed, she possesses the frame and mannerisms of a friendly nightclub bouncer, should such a thing exist. Currently employed as a chauffeur, in 1995 she was a newly promoted detective in the Nottinghamshire Constabulary, and eager to impress.

She agrees to meet me on a gloriously sunny afternoon at The King William, one of the area’s older pubs. We take a table on the terrace and, over a couple of pints of ale, we discuss the events surrounding the mysterious disappearance of Lee Woodgate.

After some initial pleasantries, I enquire as to her general experiences of the paranormal. I have learnt over the years that members of the police force always have a tale or two to tell.

Ms Jolley chuckles quietly to herself and rolls a cigarette.

‘Oh man, we used to get weird shit like that all the time. I tell you, I could write a book out of these. Well, maybe not a book. More of a large pamphlet, but you get the idea.

‘It was normally just people off their tits on something, or off their meds. We once had a guy ring up and tell us that a giant, dirty foot turned up in his living room, demanding to be washed! That was my favourite one.’ 

She chuckles again.

‘But that isn’t why we’re here, is it Doc? You want to hear what I have to say about the Woodgate case.’

I tell her that is correct.

Mr Jolley puts her cigarette out and hefts a large selection of dog-eared, yellow files on to the table between us.

‘Well I guess we should start at the beginning, then.’

She opens the first file with a sigh, handing me a blown-up passport-style head shot. It shows a dashing, blue-eyed and blonde haired young man with a slightly crooked smile. On the back of the picture is the name ‘Lee Woodgate’.

‘Evidently Mr Woodgate had been gone for a few days before we were called in. His parents contacted us, saying they couldn’t get in touch with him, and he’d apparently failed to show for the first day of his new job.

‘He wasn’t answering his phone, so we went ‘round to his flat in Burrows Court.

‘Burrows Court. How I came to hate that place.’

Burrows Court was built in 1967. Sitting atop a hill and standing 21 stories high, the building dominants the skyline, a testimony to the folly that was British housing policies in the late 1960s. Originally intended to replace the low rise terraced housing that make up the majority of the suburb of Sneinton, it eventually became a hotbed of crime, home to squatters and drug dealers, as well as people just trying to get by. In 2005 the council sold it to a private investor, relocating all the tenants.

To this day it stands empty.

Ms Jolley continues:

‘When we got there we found the door unlocked. All of Mr Woodgate’s belongings seemed there; his passport, his clothes etc. There was even a half-eaten piece of toast on the kitchen counter, stone cold.

‘We couldn’t rule out suicide, but there was no note, and according to his parents, Mr Woodgate was quite happy with his lot in life. You know, excited for the future, what with his new job and all that.

‘My instincts told me that something else was going on here, so we decided to start knocking on doors to see if any of his neighbours knew anything.

‘We didn’t find anything useful, at least not until we checked the flat directly below Mr Woodgate’s. What we found in there was fucked up, to say the least.’

According to Ms Jolley’s report, the door to the flat beneath Mr Woodgate’s is unlocked and ajar. As the new detective and her partner enter, they are greeted by the smell of cooked meat.

In the centre of the main living area, someone has scratched a pentacle onto the floor. Inside this pentacle is the partially burnt body of a stag.

‘The only way I can describe is that it was like something had taken a set from a Hammer horror film and just dropped it slap bang in the middle of suburban Nottingham.’ 

She shows me a photo of the scene. It is indeed macabre.

‘Have you ever seen a stag up close, Doc? They’re huge. And this one had these weird burns all over it, burns that kind of looked like trees pressed on to the flesh. The vet we called in eventually told us that those marks only appear when something living is struck by lightning.  

‘Where did this animal come from? And how did it get up there? Like I said, this thing was enormous, a slab of pure muscle. One person alone couldn’t have got it into the lift, let alone dragged it all the way up the stairs. And how did it die? There hadn’t been a thunder storm in the area for at least a year.  

‘So now we have a dead animal and a second crime scene. A quick search of the second flat turned up a pair of Mr Woodgate’s slippers in the living room, tucked under the sofa.

‘So we also had a connection between the two locations.  

‘We did some digging and found out who owned this second flat, and began to look closely at him.’

Ms Jolley closes the first file and passes me the second. She rolls another cigarette, watching me as I scan through the document.

The second flat belonged to a thirty-two year old man named Josiah Jeniker. This individual was unemployed, and was known to frequent a local pub, the Lord Nelson, where he would regale student drinkers with card tricks and sleight of hand. He was often heard to refer to himself as a ‘weekend occultist’, and was known to drunkenly pontificate at length on his theories regarding ‘natural’ magic.

By that point, he had not been seen for at least a fortnight.

It is worth noting that Mr Jeniker had no dependents and no immediate family. Other than the regulars at the Nelson, there was no one to miss him when he vanished.

There is an accompanying photo in the file. It shows a short, skinny and dark-haired man with a thin beard and a widow’s peak.

He looks like he would struggle to lift a cat, let alone a fully grown stag.

‘We looked into the disappearance of both men as best we could, but you have to remember that the mid ’90s were a difficult time in Nottingham. Gun and knife crime were both on the up, plus we had the ever escalating turf war between rival gangs in St Anns and the Meadows. We didn’t really have either the time or the resources to investigate two missing people and a deer that had been burnt to a crisp.

‘I’ll confess; the case got kicked into the long grass, so to speak.

‘I spoke to the family of Mr Woodgate on occasion, trying my best to reassure them that we were doing all that we could, even if that wasn’t exactly true. I told them that I’d be in touch if any new info came to light. Eventually they stopped calling.

‘It just became another case to add to the ever growing pile of unsolved cases.

‘Until the 12th of July 2005, when we received a very odd phone call.

‘It was a Mrs Singh, the last tenant left in the building. She said there was a dead man up on the roof of Burrows Court.’  

Flats2

I must interject here and add that on the night of the 12th of July 2005, multiple witnesses claim to see a series of curious blue flashes in the sky over Nottingham city and its surrounding suburbs. These flashes occur on and off for over an hour.

#

Ms Jolley goes on:

‘Because of that incident in ’95, Burrows Court seemed to become my ‘patch’. Normally we’d send a  couple of uniforms out first, but we were short staffed and none were available. So muggins here had to go.

‘As I said, Ms Singh was the last tenant left in the building. All the others had been relocated, but she was putting up a fight.

‘We’d had calls from her before, things like the neighbours playing their music too loud and youths loitering outside, the usual sort of thing. But she’d mentioned a dead body, and as soon as any talk of that kind gets started, we have to look into it.

‘Anyway, I get there, and Ms Singh answers her door. She seems agitated. Hopping from foot to foot, almost. I ask her about the body. She says she thinks it’s on the roof.

‘I calm her down and say that I’ll take a look. I must admit, I was sceptical. She reckons that she hasn’t seen it, but she knows it’s there when she closes her eyes.

‘She actually said that. ‘I know it’s there when I close my eyes’.

‘But I go up to the roof anyway. The door’s locked from this side but I managed to open it with a bit of shoulder. The place is being emptied anyway, so I figure ‘who cares’? At this point I’m just tired of all this crap.

‘I cannot impress upon you enough, Dr Gotobed, how much I wish they’d sent someone else that night.’

Ms Jolley goes on to tell me how she found yet another pentacle, again scratched into the floor. Inside this shape lay the still, naked body of a man, a man with blue eyes and blonde hair.

This man is Lee Woodgate.

He is dead.

An autopsy on this body reveals Mr Woodgate to have been in rude health at the time of his passing. The official cause of death is listed as unknown.

‘That poor bastard. What happened to him to end up here, all alone, locked up on the roof of that damn block of flats, ten years after anyone had last heard from him? 

‘That was the thing that made me realise that I didn’t want to be a copper anymore. I handed my notice in the next day.’

At this point, Ms Jolley steps away from the table to take a phone call. She returns a moment later and offers her apologies, but some urgent business has come up and she must leave.

She collects the files, leaving one with me.

‘Look over that and call me if you have any questions, Doc.’

She flashes that infectious smile as I shake her hand and thank her for her time.

Finishing my pint, I open this last file. In it there is only a handwritten note. It says: Rampton Secure Hospital, Room 117.

Sky

8th June 2012

Rampton Secure Hospital is a high security psychiatric hospital designed to hold those who have been detained under the criteria of ‘mental disorder’ as detailed in the Mental Health Act of 1983.

Although obvious attempts have been made to cheer the place up, I must confess that I find the site more than a little disturbing, to say the least.

I visit in the late afternoon, just as official visiting hours are coming to close. I am greeted at reception by a clearly overworked member of staff by the name of Doctor Mahmood.

As Dr Mahmood leads me through the labyrinthine corridors of the hospital, to the isolation wing, she tells me about the patient we are going to visit.

‘He walked into a Burger King a couple of weeks ago, completely naked and raving about… I don’t know, all manner of odd things. He threatened some customers then leapt over the counter and attacked a member of the staff.

‘The police arrested him and took his fingerprints. But there’s some discrepancy with his identity, so he’s ended up here.’

‘A discrepancy?’ I ask.

She doesn’t answer.

We reach a heavy door and Doctor Mahmood opens a small panel and motions for me to take a look inside.

Sat on a bed at the end of a padded cell is a short, skinny man with a full beard and dark hair in a widow’s peak. He sees me and raises his head, offering a nervous, crooked smile.

‘As you can see, Doctor Gotobed, the chap in there is clearly Josiah Jeniker. However, he claims to be someone different.

‘He says his name is Lee Woodgate.’

Bed

I was only able to speak to the occupant of room 117 once. He knew many obscure facts about the life of Lee Woodgate, facts I was able to corroborate with official records. His insistence that he was, in fact, Mr Woodgate at times bordered on aggressive.

He was unwilling or unable to answer any questions relating to the life of Josiah Jeniker.

Sadly, whoever it is in that cell refuses to speak with me again, or anyone else for that matter. He has since lapsed into a melancholic silence.

I decided against interviewing Mr Woodgate’s parents. I feel they have been through enough. They have never visited the man detained at Glenmore Psychiatric Hospital.

Asylum

There have been instances in the past of individuals receiving some massive head trauma and subsequently waking up able to speak a new language, having an altered personality or, in a couple of more extreme examples, claiming to be someone completely different entirely.

But these cases are rare and, due to their scarcity, seldom thoroughly researched.

Whatever happened in Burrows Court seems altogether different. Somehow the fates of Lee Woodgate and Josiah Jeniker appear to have become hopelessly entangled, and all that remains now appears to be the mind and memories of the would-be teacher trapped in the body of the ‘weekend occultist’.

And what of the mysterious lights seen on the nights preceding the discovery of the body on the roof of Burrow’s Court? Are they mere co-incidence, or are they somehow linked to the fate of these two individuals?

I fear that without the further co-operation of the gentleman that resides in room 117 of Rampton Secure Hospital, a satisfying resolution to this strange and unfortunate series of events will remain elusive.

Dr Thomas Gotobed 

There seems to be quite a few similarities with this report and another I wrote up earlier. Once again, all the places are local to me, but I cannot find any mention of the individuals involved – C.R. 

A Tall Man on the Mountainside

The following letter was tucked away in the back of the good doctor’s journal, alongside an old Polaroid photo and a postcard of the Berber flag. The letter is written in this odd kind of cursive that seems to lean backwards, and is entirely different from Doctor Gotobed’s somewhat cramped scrawl – C.R. 

Berber_flag

Atlas Guest House

Imlil 42152

Morocco

 

June 12th 1990

Dearest Thomas,

As you know, I am deep in the Atlas Mountains with a view to climbing Mount Toubkal. I experienced something most unusual yesterday, and I thought it would be of interest to you.

My colleagues and I had just set out on the first leg of our trip, and I must say that I was surprised by the similarity of the mountainous terrain and climate out here with that of the Scottish Highlands.

The weather had been good for the first hour or so, although Abde (our guide) informed us that winds and rain were on their way. He was correct, and it did not take long for a thick mist to descend alongside this inclement weather, reducing visibility to a mere ten feet or so ahead. Still we continued. After all, one only needs to know (and continue knowing) that the next step is the correct one.

So our progress was slow, yet steady.

Then the peculiar thing occurred: as we were walking up the rock strewn path, I noted a shrill whistling coming through the mist before us.

It was a melody I recognised, but couldn’t place.

The whistling grew louder, and the sound was followed by a tall man striding out of the haze. When I say tall, I mean he was the tallest individual I have ever seen. Possibly 8 foot, possibly even more. He seemed to be wearing a black, shiny and almost skin-tight piece of clothing that appeared to be made from one piece, going all the way from his toes to his neck, and he held up a small brolly. At least it looked small in his hands. He had round, glassy eyes and, I must admit, I found myself a little repulsed by him, for reasons I could not put my finger on.

As he drew closer to us, this chap stopped and addressed our guide in what I assumed was Arabic, before carrying on his journey, nodding as he passed myself and my colleagues.

Once he was gone, I asked Adbe what it was that this man had said.

‘He says the rocks are loose up ahead. He advised we turn back,’ came Adbe’s reply.  

I asked him if that was what we would be doing.

The answer was a rather curt ‘No’.

We carried on, and I resolved not to pay the image of this strange, tall figure any more thought until after we had scaled the summit and were well on our return journey.

But that was not to be.

Not thirty minutes later, we crossed paths with the tall man again. Not that he came from behind us. No. Once again, his coming was preceded by the same whistled tune from the mist in front of us. Again he strode out of the fog clutching his umbrella. Again he spoke to our guide. Again he nodded as he passed the rest of us.

I asked Abde if that was the same man.

‘Yes. And his message was the same.’

‘Will we be turning back?’ I said.

‘No. We continue.’ 

And continue we did, for another hour or so in the blasting winds and their accompanying rain, until we reached a small clearing with some natural shelter, where we stopped for a quick break.

As we were making small talk, the kind of small talk that physically drained people make when they know that there is still much work to be done, a familiar shrill whistling cut through the air. We fell silent, each one of us looking around at the faces of the other members of the group.

Once again, the whistling grew louder, and then the figure appeared, again from the same direction. He did not stop this time; rather he just smiled at us as he walked by. I say smiled, but I’m positive that this gentleman had no teeth or gums, just lips and darkness behind them, but maybe it was just my eyes playing tricks on me.

We watched the figure disappear into the mist and back down the trail leading away from the mountain.

I looked to our guide, assuming he would say that we should just carry on. But Adbe looked terrified. He was already packing his stuff away.

‘Come. We are getting off the mountainside. We will come back in a few days.’

I asked him if his change of heart was down to the repeated appearance of the tall gentleman. He would not answer, and led us back down to our guest house in the village of Imlil without saying another word.

We ate our evening meal in silence and bedded down for the night, hoping to start afresh the next day, today.

I found out this morning that a terrible landslide occurred overnight and two other groups of hikers have gone missing. One of these was the group that had set out not twenty minutes before our own.

And Abde? He is nowhere to be seen.

Now, I have no explanation for any of this. I’m not saying it’s in anyway supernatural, or even if it falls under any of the other categories of ‘spooky things’ that you look into, but I thought it might interest you. It was also good to write down and commit to paper, even if it was just for my own sanity.

We are planning to have another go at the summit once we have found a new guide. Should we see this peculiar chap again, or indeed any other strange persons, I’ll be sure to let you know.

Wish Percy well for me, and tell her that I will be round for dinner with photographs and souvenirs once I get back to good old Blighty. I owe her a bottle of wine (or two)!

Lots of love,

Jane

Waterfall

Once again, I can’t corroborate any of this: landslides in the High Atlas Mountains are not recorded, and investigations into missing hikers from that part of the world seems pretty much non-existent, especially in the early ’90s. Yet more weirdness – C.R. 

‘Not Yet, Not Yet’

Lamp

If precognition is an individual experiencing a forewarning of things yet to pass, what of those times when the warning seems to come from an outside agency?

Many people believe in the idea that there is some greater force watching over us, a force that is capable of intervening with our lives. Indeed, unscrupulous individuals posing as mediums, psychics and soothsayers have had great success over the years in separating people from their money on the pretence of communicating with said force.

But modern examples of such supernatural intervention are few and far between.

But not unheard of.

PubEpping

8th May 2015

Robert Bilson is a tall, middle-aged gentleman, with a wide smile and hair the colour of snow. He is currently employed as an administrator for the NHS, but twenty years ago he worked for a different branch of the civil service.

We meet in the George & Dragon pub in Epping. After apologising profusely for his lateness, even though it was a mere ten minutes, we take a seat at a table in the old games room. Over a pint or two of real ale, Mr Bilson shares his memories of an event that occurred just over two decades ago.

‘I was working for the Revenue at the time, in their old offices in South Norwood. I think they used to be army barracks or something. They certainly felt like it. The building was pretty cramped, lots of interconnected rooms that always smelt like damp. We called it ‘the Labyrinth’.

‘I used to stay behind after everyone else had gone. I’d just been through a pretty bad break-up at the time, I’ll spare you the gory details, but I liked the peace and quiet. It let me get things done.

‘One night, I think it was a Tuesday, I was working away, typing up some records, when I noticed a sound. It was strange. Whenever I typed, I could hear the clacking of keys. Not just mine, but sort of ‘underneath’ mine, if that makes any sense. It sounded like it was coming from down the corridor, but I couldn’t get a handle on it, as it only seemed to happen when my fingers were on the keyboard.

‘I started thinking it was just an echo. But there was something different about that sound. Every few seconds there was a muffled ‘ding’ and then, like a sliding sound.

‘I recognised it. It’s the noise the carriage bell return on a typewriter makes.

‘I didn’t know anyone in the building who used one of those. But, like I said, it was an old office, and there were some eccentric types that worked there. I figured it was one of the older members of staff. People like what they like, I guess. Old habits and all that.

‘I carried on with my reports, maybe another hour or so, the muffled ding on the typewriter carrying on as well.

‘When I packed my things up, I realised I was going to have find whoever this other person was who was working late and let them know that they’d have to lock up.

‘I did a circuit of the whole building and could not find another soul. Perhaps they’d snuck out? I thought it was a little rude that they’d not said anything, but oh well.

‘As I went to the front door I passed one of the offices that were just off the main corridor. It was dimly lit, but I’m sure, absolutely sure, that I saw someone in there.  It was a guy in a pinstripe suit and a bowler hat. He had his back to me and he seemed to be on the phone.

‘I only caught a glimpse of him, because I was walking quite quickly and hadn’t expected to see anyone. I stepped back, did like a double take, but the room was empty.

‘I turned the light on, but nope. Not a soul to be seen. And the other weird thing? There was no phone in that room, not even a socket in the wall for one.’

These types of sighting are not uncommon. Indeed, there is an argument that certain buildings can retain a memory of the souls that dwell within them, and that an individual’s routine, if repeated often enough, can somehow leave an imprint on the very surroundings, an imprint that can be played back if certain conditions are met. But these imprints are just recordings; capable of being replayed, but incapable of interaction.

But what happened next in South Norwood argues against that idea in this instance.

Mr Bilson continues.

‘I’ll admit I was a little spooked, so I locked up and got out of there sharpish. I got in my car and drove out of the car park.

‘Now the end of the road that the office was on was known for being badly lit. A lamppost had been knocked down a few years ago and had never been replaced, and it was pretty dark that night.

‘As I slowed down at the end of the road, getting ready for the turn, I heard a voice, a male voice, clear as a bell. It sounded like it was right in my ear.

‘It said ‘not yet, not yet’. 

‘I froze. The car came to a dead stop and I just sat there, gripping the wheel.

‘Suddenly, in front of me, a big black van with no lights screamed past, tyres squealing, the lot.

‘I didn’t recognise the voice, and I had no idea where it came from. But I know this: if it hadn’t spoken, if I hadn’t stopped and had just carried on going, that van would’ve taken me out completely. I’d be dead.

‘I’ll tell you something else too. I don’t believe in ghosts, or angels or spirits. But something or someone saved my life that night.’ 

Mr Bilson says he worked late in that same building many nights after that. He never heard the clacking of the typewriter or saw the shade of the man in the pinstripe suit and bowler hat ever again.

But he was always sure to stop at the end of that particular road and double check it was clear, even after the broken streetlamp was finally replaced.

Stop

Is it possible that Mr Bilson somehow unknowingly picked up on the danger around him – the lack of light, the sound of the van approaching, even the vibration of the vehicle through the earth itself – and some part of his subconscious manifested the voice to warn him?

This is not unheard of, and the fact the words sounded directly in his ear rather than coming from somewhere else lends weight to this idea.

However, this theory does not explain the sound of the typewriter that Mr Bilson heard, nor the figure he briefly glimpsed in the dark office just before he left.

Mr Bilson did note that the building always had a damp smell, and it is not unknown for the spores of certain types of toxic mould to have psychoactive effects. Studies recently undertaken at Clarkson University in New York at least suggest this is possible, although it is interesting to note that I could find no record of any other incidents of this nature occurring in or around the premises.

Typewriter

Whoever the mysterious individual with the penchant for typewriters was, perhaps more than just his routine remained behind in the building. Perhaps part of his soul lingered there too, keeping an eye out for the staff that stayed behind after hours.

Whatever the explanation, something unusual occurred that dark night in South Norwood, and, whatever it was, it saved Mr Bilson’s life on that particularly gloomy evening.

Dr Thomas Gotobed