The Keepers of the Luminosity

Once again I have to thank my friend Alexander McCulloch for his help with restoring this entry – C.R.


Eric Peterson is born in 1974 in Ontario, Canada, to a small yet hardworking household of lapsed Catholics. He leaves school at the age of 18 and takes a job as an apprentice for a local construction firm. There he remains, working his way up through the company, until a near fatal accident on-site hospitalises him for a three month spell.

During his recovery, he falls in with a group of people named ‘The Keepers of the Luminosity’. A ragtag and short-lived group of supposed UFO contactees and survivors of near death experiences, the Keepers declare themselves ‘scientists of the spiritual’.

This group exists pre-internet, and little is known about them beyond their overarching philosophy that before the turn of the millennium, ‘the light will shine from above and reveal the truth to mankind’.

If they have a leader, his or her identity is unknown.

In September of 1996, Eric Peterson travels to England, to the village of Soudley in the Forest of Dean, West Gloucestershire, to be precise.


May 25th 2006

Robert Boucher is a stout fellow, with a thick bushy beard and forearms etched with faded tattoos. Formerly a logger on the Canadian West Coast, he retired and came to Gloucester in the early ‘90s with his Dutch wife.

He is also the maternal uncle of Eric Peterson.

We meet by the edge of nearby Soudley Ponds. During a slow stroll by the water’s edge, Mr Boucher tells me of his nephew’s visit in the autumn of 1996.

‘It was unexpected, to say the least. I hadn’t seen Eric for years. He must’ve been thirteen the last time.

‘He was always a level-headed kid. Between you and me, Doctor, he wasn’t the sharpest tool in the closet. But he had a strong work ethic. He got that from his mother. And I guess she got it from our father.’

He pulls a hip flask from his jacket and takes a drink, before offering it to me. I politely decline.

‘When he showed up though, he was different. I guess it was the accident. He had all these funny ideas, and he kept telling me how he was here to help mankind ‘see the light’.

‘I guess that bump he took on the noggin’ must’ve shaken something loose. And that crowd he’d fallen in with? They weren’t helping. He was only here three days before it happened, and every night he spent at least an hour on the phone with them, talking crap.

‘I overheard a few snippets of some of his conversation. All ‘the light’ this and ‘the dawn’ that. And there was something about ‘a procedure’ that he’d come here to carry out.

‘I asked him about it on the third night he was here. He said he’d come to England to perform an experiment, and that he was going to do it that night.

‘He grabbed a bag he’d bought with him and, despite my wife’s protests, he set out into the night.

‘I told her not to worry, he’d be back once he realised how cold and wet it was out there.

‘We never saw him alive again.’

At approximately 11.45pm, Eric Peterson is struck by a car whilst walking along a dark road leading into the Forest of Dean.  The driver of the car is drunk and travelling at speed.

Mr Peterson dies instantly.

When the police arrive on the scene they find a backpack nearby. It contains twelve tuning forks and a thin piece of metal inscribed with curious markings.

Mr Boucher later identifies the backpack as being the one that Mr Peterson was wearing when he left on his night-time excursion.

A small notebook is also found in Mr Peterson’s jacket pocket. It contains page after page of what appears to be scrawled calculations, although none of the symbols used tally with any known scientific or mathematical signs.

Mr Peterson’s family cannot afford to have his body returned to Canada. His uncle arranges for him to be buried at St Stephen’s church in nearby Cinderford.

Whilst all this is tragic, nothing here would warrant further investigation.

Until two years later, when something very strange takes place.


May 27th 2006

Sally Boyle is a reserved and softly spoken individual. Whilst initially reluctant to share her tale, she eventually agrees to meet me in a local coffee shop. After half an hour of small talk and reassurances that I am not a journalist, she eventually tells me the following, which took place in September of 1998.

‘I was out walking that morning, in the forest. I liked to take a walk first thing; I found it helped to clear my head before I went to work.

‘It was dark. Not night-time; the sun had just started to rise, so I could see where I was going, but still quite dark. The birds were tweeting. It used to be my favourite time, because it always felt like the forest was just waking up. I used to love being a part of that.

‘Until that day.’

The next part is obviously a struggle for her.

‘I had a route that I always followed. Not a path, you understand. I got to a section of the forest that was usually about my half-way point, when I noticed that all of the trees nearby looked different. They were kind of ‘leaning away’ from something, not bent you understand, but like in a circle, like something had, I suppose, ‘pushed’ them outwards.

‘In the centre of the circle, surrounded by these weird metal things, was a body, all smashed and broken.

‘It was horrible’.

Ms Boyle breaks down in tears.


The police arrive sometime later to investigate. There is indeed a body in the forest. It lies inside a small circle made up of a dozen tuning forks wedged into the soft earth. Next to the corpse is a thin metal rod stuck into the ground. The tip of the rod is smoking.

The body itself is of a young man in his early twenties. His arms and legs are broken in several places, and a small notebook is found on his person. It is full of strange symbols laid out as if they are mathematical equations.

The police are initially at a loss as to explain the presence of this man. It is only after the body is taken to the morgue that any clue to his identity is revealed.

The coroner recognises this unfortunate individual: he is the spitting image of Eric Peterson, who was bought in some two years ago.

Several officers from the earlier case come to the same conclusion.

They also confirm that the objects found around the body in the forest are exactly the same as those found on Mr Peterson. A search through the evidence stores reveals that the items from the Peterson case are still there, and these new ones are identical, down to the handwriting in the notebook.

There is one difference: the second notebook contains a photograph, apparently of an unknown surface (please find it attached to this file). On the back of this photograph is a note, written in the same cramped scrawl as the symbols. It reads:


That man in the ground is not me, but maybe I am not me either.

I have to leave this place. I hope the light will take me home.


Mr Boucher was bought to the morgue, in the hopes he will confirm that the body from the forest is not his nephew.

Sadly, his response only raises his more questions:

‘That’s Eric, for sure. And if that’s him, then who the Hell did I bury two years back?’

Mr Peterson’s grave is exhumed the next day. Tests prove conclusively that it is Mr Boucher’s nephew inside.

I have conducted a thorough investigation into Mr Peterson’s family history. He was an only child.


So who was this doppelgänger who saw fit to head into the Forest of Dean and complete the work his double began some two years prior? And what was the nature of this ‘light’ that he sought?

The group known as The Keepers of the Luminosity seems to disappear in early 1997. I can find no record of its members. Actual hard copies of their literature are apparently non-existent.

There are no answers to be found there.

Sadly, once the authorities got wind of my investigation, all avenues of inquiry on this matter were closed to me. Even my most trusted sources refused to return my calls.

It is also worth noting that both Mr Boucher and Ms Boyle have since left the area. Their current whereabouts are unknown.

Something very troubling occurred in the Forest of Dean on those two separate nights. Whatever it was, it seems that it is apparently in someone’s best interests to keep it hidden from us and the public.

Dr Thomas Gotobed 

– this is the first time, maybe barring this case, that the good doctor has strayed into ‘conspiracy theory’ territory. The photo he mentions was attached to the file, and I’ve added it in. For the life of me I can’t work out what it is – C.R. 

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