Ambling across the South Downs, a large stretch of chalk hills, valleys and woodland just to the north of the south coast of England, you might chance upon a peculiar collection of beech trees perched atop a prominent spot on its northern edge. The trees, first planted by local landowner Charles Goring in seventeen sixty, but later replaced after being destroyed by a hurricane in nineteen eighty seven, marked the spot of an ancient circular structure believed to date back to
the Bronze Age, known today as Changtonbury Ring. The original purpose of the site remains unknown, with suggestions ranging from the mundane, such as it having been first used as little more than a livestock enclosure, to the sublime, with others believing instead that it may well have been some kind of religious or mystical shrine. Some, however, have claimed it to have been used for an altogether different purpose, and that the ring had in fact been created by
the devil. A worthy feature, you might say, for an area of England long thought to have hosted more than
its fair share of unexplained phenomena. Some have put the bizarre activity that seems to plague this quiet part of the countryside in the County of Sussex to a curse placed on the local village of Clapham by a disgruntled resident back in twelve eighty eight, after losing a legal case against a local parson, Robert Lafulconer was said to have damned the accursed village and all its meager holdings, stating that the priesthood of a false god would soon
come to know its fate. Others, however, are argue it had begun a long time before, with Changtonbury believed to be the site of an otherworldly power, being thought to have once been the location of a former Druidic temple used for ancient and mysterious rituals. Back in the nineteen twenties, local resident and famed occultist Victor Neuberg, along with his cohort and sometime lover Aleister Crowley, was said to have
taken a keen interest in the area. According to local law, if one were to venture to the ring at midnight on a Midsummer's Eve and walk its circumference twelve times, the midnight drew, it would appear or even the devil themselves.
Other local tales speak of a white bearded Saxon soldier believed to have been killed at the Battle of Hastings in ten sixty six, seen scrabbling about the floor looking for something, while some report the sightings of hazy lights and strange apparitions seen in the area at night, with some suggesting that they might have something to do with
a nearby plague pit. Perhaps the most romantic of all the ghost stories that shroud the area is that of the ghost of Prince Agasaci's Syenesis, a famed astrologer from Carrier in western Anatolia. As legend goes, it was in the early seventeenth century that the prince began using Changtonbury Ring to observe the stars, when one night, after writing the words Sir Pelli Ubi kakidi bury me wherever I
have fallen, he fell down dead. It is said that to this day the astrologer can still be seen wandering the ring of trees at night. You're listening to Unexplained and I'm Richard MacLean Smith. It was the morning of all Hallow's Eve. Back in nineteen seventy eight, when Reverend Harry Snelling made his way to the town of Goring
in West Sussex for a routine dental operation. Riding the bus into town, the sixty five year old recently retired vicer chatted amiably with his former parishioners before arriving at the dentist just in time for his appointment later that afternoon. Having arrived in Findon, four miles from the town of Stenning, where he lived, Snelling called his wife from a phone
box and asked if she could pick him up. However, since their car had broken down recently and was still in need of servicing, Snelling had no other choice but to make the journey on foot. A short time later, with dusk descending, Snelling was seen heading off the main road and striking out across the downs in the direction of his home. As evening turned to night, Snelling's wife waited anxiously for her husband's return, but Harry never made
it home. The next day, after he was reported missing, twenty five police officers from the surrounding area were immediately dispatched to search for him, focusing their attention on the most likely route he would have taken to get home. For the best part of a week, the police assisted by search dog teams, a raft of volunteers, and even a light aircraft, tried desperately to find any sign of the man, but in the end found nothing. A few days later, the search was called off, With no reason
to suspect anything otherwise. It was assumed that Snelling had either tragically ended his own life or had collapsed and died somewhere and was yet to be found. At the time of the reverend's disappearance, Charles Walker worked as a sales assistant in Worthing, just five miles south of where
the retired clergyman was last seen alive. In his spare time, however, Walker had become somewhat of an expert on the peculiar history of his local area, collecting and documenting evidence that seemed to suggest that something very sinister had been brewing there for quite some time. Could it be he thought that there was a little more to the Reverend's disappearance
than first met the eye. Having always been fascinated by the possibility of the paranormal, it was back in April nineteen seventy two that Charles Walker's interest was really piqued. It was then that the region's numerous apparent mysterious happenings were given a thoroughly modernized slant. Three friends from Walker's hometown had ventured up toward Chantonbury Ring late one night when they noticed a soft light flickering from within it.
Having assumed it to be nothing more than a bonfire, they were surprised to find when they arrived at the trees moments later, that the light had gone out and there was no sign of anyone else around. It was only then, as one of the group later recounted, that a sudden wish from above drew their attention to the dim red glow of some kind of object that was hovering just above the tree tops in front of them.
A moment later, they watched it as it shot up into the sky, though its possible significance to the wider story was not yet apparent to Walker. It was around the same time that local police officer Peter Goldsmith disappeared. It was in June of that year that Goldsmith, who like Harry Snelling, also lived in Standing, left work after completing his shift for the day, but never made it
back home. It wasn't until six months later that a local farmer, helping to co ordinate a hunting party at a nearby farm just west of Stenning discovered Goldsmith's dead body hidden under a thick growth of brambles at the edge of the farm land. The body was found curled up on its left side, as if Goldsmith had merely gone to sleep. A bottle of brown liquid was also found next to the body. While curiously clutched in the hand, police found what was described as some kind of metal
disk like a token. With many assuming the liquid had been some kind of poison the coroner was stumped when it was in fact found not to have been poisonous at all. With no definitive cause of death, there was no choice but to record an open verdict, with some
form of suicide thought to be most likely. However, many were left wondering not only how search teams had failed to spot Goldsmith's body despite investigating that area extensively, but also how on earth he managed to place himself under such a thick, impenetrable mesh of brambles, which had to be cut away in order to extract the body. Though brambles can grow up to three inches in a day, the extent to which the body had been hidden was
something of a surprise. Over the next few years, Walker, having joined a local paranormal research group, continued to keep an ear out for any peculiar activity, but what he craved most was to experience something himself, and he wouldn't have long to wait. It was in August nineteen seventy four that Walker, then in his early twenties, along with three others, made a late night research trip to Chantonbury Ring.
Walker would later claim that it was sometime around eleven p m. When one of the group, William Lincoln, stepped into the center of the ring, only to be suddenly snatched up by an invisible force and thrust five feet into the air, and there he would stay for the best part of a minute, seemingly levitating in mid air as he screamed to be released, before finally being sent sprawling to the ground. It wasn't long after that that
the dogs started to go missing. The reports began appearing in local papers in spring of nineteen seventy five, though many believe it had been happening for some time. The first to be reported was a three year old and well trained chowdog that was walking with its family in Clapham Wood, just to the north of Clapham Village in an area known as the Chestnuts, when it suddenly bolted
off into the trees, never to return. Only a week later, a two year old Collie, an intelligent working farm dog, was being walked near the same spot when it too shot off into the undergrowth, never to be seen again. Not long after, a golden labrador, while walking in the same woods, became distracted by something unseen in the trees,
before darting off in search of it. The dog's companions, alerted to its location by the sound of its desperate whimpers, were devastated to find it in some distress and unable to walk. After it was later found to have somehow been paralyzed. The dog was unfortunately put down, and soon more people came forward to report their own experiences walking with their dogs at the same locations. How they or their dog had clearly felt an uneasy, ominous atmosphere in
those woods. Back at his home in Worthing, Charles Walker, as ever, followed the stories with the keen interest, keeping copies of the articles for future reference. A few months later, a body was found in the woods. Sixty six year old Leon Foster had been missing for three weeks when a couple out looking for a horse that had escaped a nearby paddock noticed a pair of boots sticking out from the undergrowth. When police arrived soon after, they found
it to be the body of Leon Foster Straw. Discovered under and around his body and the remains of a makeshift shelter tied around the trunk of a nearby tree, suggested that he'd been living in the woods for some time, with most assuming that he'd simply died of hunger or exposure while living outside. However, with the coroner once again unable to ascertain a precise cause of death, an open
verdict was recorded. It was around this time that Walker began to wonder if all these mysterious incidences, from the disappearances to the UFO sightings, not to mention the area's apparent supernatural history stretching back centuries, might somehow be linked.
Over the next few years, drawing on the various reports of peculiar activity and the litany of local folklore claiming that Shantonbury Ring and the surrounding area was somehow a focal point of a cult activity, he wondered if it might be possible that perhaps an occult organization was using the area for nefarious purposes. In October nineteen seventy eight, Walker wrote to the local paper asking its readers for
any information they might have on such a group. Within days, he was inundated with replies from the mundane to the outlandish. None of it, however, warranted following up to flate it. Walker had resigned himself to having found nothing useful when one night in early November, having just settled down to watch TV, his phone rang. Answering the call, Walker was greeted by an assertive sounding man with a low voice
and an RP accent. Though the man wouldn't identify himself, he claimed to have the information that Walker was looking for, and suggested the pair of them meet up to discuss it further. Though Walker couldn't say exactly why, it was, unlike all of the other responders to his request, something about this caller seemed genuine. Walker duly agreed to meet up with him, assuming they would set a date to meet, either at his home or somewhere neutral. But the man
had something else in mind. Tonight, he said. At nine p m. Walker looked at the clock on his wall, the hands now pointing to eight thirty. I'll be waiting for you in Clapham Woods, by the crossroads and the chestnuts, he said, and then he hung up. It was pitch black when Walker arrived twenty minutes later at the top of Tipnaw Lane, a small rise overlooking the forest beyond.
Making his way toward the entrance road, he noticed the car parked the woods was completely empty, with only the sound of an occasional car passing along the road behind him. Walker pushed on through a gate and into the trees behind. With the gentle roar of distant traffic having disappeared altogether and only the sound of his own footsteps for company, Walker pressed on toward the crossroads, anxiously listening out for
any hint of someone else approaching. Arriving at the meeting point at nine on the dot, Walker called out for a response, but heard nothing in return. The place was deserted. Only then did Walker realize his hands were shaking, but not from the cold night air. Lighting a cigarette to calm his nerves, Walker began to pace up and down,
trying to keep warm as he waited. By the end of a second cigarette, Walker was beginning to suspect that it had been nothing but a practical joke, But just as he started to make his way back out, he heard someone whisper out from behind some nearby trees. Don't attempt to look for me, the voids said, for your safety and mine, it is imperative you do not see who I am. Walker froze, immediately recognizing it as the
man he had spoken to earlier. After Walker agreed to keep looking the way he was facing, the man began to talk. I am an initiate of the Friends of her CARTI, named after the Greek goddess of magic, witchcraft, and the Night. We are the group you've been looking for, he said, and it would be in your best interests
to stop looking. Unperturbed, Walker asked the man if the group had anything to do with the recent disappear inces, without going into too much detail, the man replied that their rituals occasionally required a blood sacrifice, if that was
the answer he was looking for. And so it continued as the increasingly nervous Walker listened carefully as the man explained how the group had been operating in that area for at least ten years because the atmosphere of the woods, as he described it, was perfect for their purposes, but when Walker inquired as to what that purpose was exactly,
the man fell silent. He then explained to Walker that they had friends in very high places, before warning him again to back off and that they would stop at nothing to ensure the safety of their cult. Then there was another silence. When Walker called out moments later, it was clear he was once again alone. Hurrying out of the forest, Walker was relieved to finally make it back home. A few days later, while cycling home from work, Walker
heard a car pull up close behind him. He barely felt the bump before finding himself sprawled on his back in the middle of the road, watching aghast as the car sped off into the distance before he could make note of its details. After lying low for the next six months, in the spring of the following year, Walker renewed his search for evidence of the Friends of Herkart's activities.
One morning, whilst walking through the grounds of the Church of Saint Mary the Virgin, just south of Clapham Woods, Walker was distracted by the site of the town's manor house next door, but more specifically by the Medie barn that still stood on its grounds. The house had been occupied for some time, but seeing that the barn door was open, Walker began to wander. Quickly checking that no one was around, Walker leaped over the church wall, scooted
up the driveway and ducked into the barn. Looking up, he gasped at the sight of a bizarre mural on the wall, about three foot high in size. It was apparently composed primarily of a demonic looking entity with a huge horned head, scaly body, and forked tail. In its hands, it held a sword and chalice, ancient symbols of fertility, and behind it a bank of flames licked up from the ground. Hearing a sound outside, Walker looked out to
see a man running toward him. In panic, he bolted away away as the man gave chase, before managing to lose him in the woods. Over the next few years, Charles Walker continued hunting for evidence not only of the apparent occult group's existence, but also of their connection to the many strange events that had taken place in the area over the last few years, but the group and
its members remained elusive. In August nineteen eighty one, officers at Worthing Police station received a package with a battered and disheveled wallet inside, along with a crudely drawn map of some woods located on the Sussex Downs, about a mile to the northwest of Stenning. Examining the bank cards in the wallet, police found the name Harry Snelling embossed on the front of them, as an accompanying letter explained
the center of the package. A tourist from Canada named Mike called Rain had found a human skeleton while walking across the Downs the previous week, which he believed to be the remains of Reverend Snelling. Since he had an important flight to catch, Worried that he would be dragged into a lengthy police investigation, Rain decided instead to send the wallet as evidence of his find and a map
to explain where the remains could be located. Following the instructions, later that day, police found the skeleton at the north edge of some woodland close to a property known as Whiston House. Not only were they surprised to find that the bones, despite having supposedly been there for almost three years, had not been much obscured by surrounding vegetation, but also that the area in which they were found had been
thoroughly searched numerous times before. It wasn't long after the discovery of Snelling's remains that others began to notice the suspicious number of unexplained deaths and other events that seemed to be plaguing this quiet, unassuming area of the English countryside. Writing in the paranormal magazine unexplained that year, Toy Newton, without any reference to the Friends of Herkati, made his
own effort to document the bizarre collection of events. A few months later, he received a curious letter from a reader. Dear Sirs, it began in your article on Clapham Woods. You ask of the mysterious events a link to a black coven. I can tell you they are, but it's much more than that. They are called the Friends of Herkati, and they meet in the woods and the barn up by the church make ritual sacrifices. At the time of Orion.
The Archer people get headaches and strange feelings at Clapham because the place is building up vibrations so they can get the force that they want. Sometimes this strange force has even started fires, but everything is hushed up. They can make people do what they want. I can't sign my name, but be warned they are much more powerful than a black coven. If you enjoy Unexplained and would like to help supporters, you can now do so via Patreon.
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Unexplained is an AV Club Productions podcast created by Richard McClain smith. All other elements of the podcast, including the music, are also produced by me Richard mclinsmith. Unexplained. The book and audiobook, with stories never before featured on the show, is now available to buy worldwide. You can purchase from Amazon,
Barnes and Noble, Waterstones and other bookstores. Please subscribe to and rate the show wherever you get your podcasts, and feel free to get in touch with any thoughts or ideas regarding the stories you've heard on the show. Perhaps you have an explanation of your own you'd like to share. You can find out more at Unexplained podcast dot com and reach us online through Twitter at Unexplained Pod and Facebook at Facebook dot com, Forward Slash Unexplained Podcast, assass