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The Terrifying True Story of John Dee - The Man Who Spoke to "Angels" · Mystery Archives Episodes

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There are men whose lives become legends.
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Then there are those whose legends become warnings.
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John Dee was many things, mathematician, navigator,
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advisor to a queen, and architect of one of the greatest
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libraries in Renaissance Europe. But behind the titles and
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beneath the brilliance was something stranger, something
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darker. Dee believed he had spoken with
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angels, and worse still, he believed they had spoken back.
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This is not a tale of myth. It is a reconstruction drawn
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from Dee's own words, his Diaries, rituals and the strange
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alphabet he claimed was gifted to him by celestial beings.
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It is a journey through shadowed halls and burning visions,
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across courts and cathedrals, and into the mind of a man who
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dared to cross the boundary between heaven and hell.
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What you're about to hear is nonfiction.
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It is the account of a man who opened the gate and found
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something staring back. Some called him a genius, others
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a heretic, but all who knew his story understood this.
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Once the mirror speaks, it never goes silent.
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The fire in Mort Lakes hearth had nearly died, leaving only a
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faint orange glow that flickered across the stone walls like a
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breath from another world. Outside the tames twisted in
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silence beneath a shroud of fog, the river's black waters
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whispering secrets into the night.
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Inside, among rotting books and cracked instruments, sat a man
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whose mind had once charted the heavens.
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Doctor John Dee, aged, hollow eyed and forgotten by the court
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that once exalted him, hunched over a tattered diary.
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His hand, which end youth had drafted star maps and summoned
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spirits, now trembled uncontrollably.
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The ink he spilled onto the parchment was more than just
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record. It was confession.
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Years had passed since he had last heard the angels voices.
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Decades since he and Edward Kelly had gazed into the Black
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Mirror and received language not born of this Earth, DS
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brilliance had once commanded the ear of Queen Elizabeth
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herself. Now, only ghosts remained.
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Around him, the shadows shifted with strange deliberation, as if
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animated by forces unseen. Books creaked open on their own
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accord. The walls exhaled.
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Mirrors, long COVID in cloth, pulsed beneath their wrappings.
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Still, Dee wrote for whom no one knew.
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He claimed the words were not his, that something else guided
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his hand, that the veil between worlds had thinned too far, and
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what once whispered now walked freely in his home.
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He no longer wrote for kings or scholars.
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His diary, smudged with age and grease, bore words meant for the
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unknown reader, the one who might someday follow the same
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path. In that final winter of his
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life, Dee remained convinced of one truth, that the divine had
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spoken to him, and so would something else.
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The boundary between Angel and demon, he feared, had never been
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clear. And if he had opened the gate,
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they we're still watching. John Dee was born in London
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during the winter of 1527, a season marked by biting winds
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and thick, coal laced fog. His father, Roland Dee, served
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in the court of King Henry the Eighth, affording his son access
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to an education that few in England could dream of.
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Even as a boy, John was strange, brilliant but distant.
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His mother, pious and soft spoken, worried early on that
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her child's mind was reaching into places not meant for the
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living. By the age of 15, Dee had
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entered St. John's College at Cambridge,
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where he devoured classical texts at a feverish pace.
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He studied geometry, astronomy, theology, philosophy, and
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everything that he could find that touched the edges of the
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known world. His peers feared him, his
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professors admired him. They whispered that he never
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slept, that he solved theorems in his dreams.
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It was at Cambridge that deconstructed a mechanical
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scarab, an automaton powered by clockwork, which crawled across
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the table like a living thing. It terrified the servants.
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Some accused him of witchcraft, and he laughed in their faces
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and quoted Archimedes. Give me a place to stand and I
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will move the world in 1548, seeking broader minds and older
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secrets, The left for Luvin. There, beyond the cautious
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boundaries of English academia, he found the forbidden text he
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had long desired. He poured over Agrippa's The
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Occulta Philosophia, studied the Picatrix and sought meaning and
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half lost fragments attributed to Hermes Trismegistus.
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What he found wasn't madness, it was order, a design beneath
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reality, a divine structure hidden in number, language, and
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star. The stars, he began to believe,
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were not just lights, they were symbols, keys.
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Upon his return to England, he carried with him not just books,
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but a reputation. Some called him a genius, others
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a heretic. Queen Mary's court briefly
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imprisoned him on suspicion of sorcery and treason.
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His astrological calculations had been misread as omens of her
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death, and after weeks of solitary confinement he was
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released. But the fire in his mind had
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only grown. When Elizabeth ascended the
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throne in 1558, these fortunes changed.
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The new queen saw on him not a threat, but an asset.
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She summoned him to court, consulted him in private, and
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tasked him with reading the heavens for signs of political
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tides. To the world, Dee appeared as a
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learned man, a scholar, an astrologer, a servant of crown
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and country. But in the quiet hours, when the
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mirrors were uncovered and the stars were in alignment, be
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pursued something else entirely. He was not simply a man of
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learning. He was a seeker of the divine.
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Among John Dee's earliest surviving notebooks lies a
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curious annotation, unrelated to equations or anything else.
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It is a short, unstructured passage scrawled between pages
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of Euclidean geometry. Its ink is faded, its tone
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uncharacteristically unsettled. At the time, D was 17.
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The notation describes a peculiar moment during his
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studies. While working late into the
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night, he had begun to perceive patterns behind the diagrams,
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geometric shapes not drawn by his own hand, but somehow
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embedded in the margins as if waiting to be discovered.
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One in particular, a star inverted upon itself, surrounded
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by 7 eye like notes, seized his attention.
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He traced the symbol absently into the wood of his desk.
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Hours passed. When he awoke.
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His fingers were stained with ink and blood, and the symbol
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had been etched into the oak grain as though burned there,
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and no one could explain how. That night he dreamed of a
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staircase spiraling downward into a vast library where the
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shelves were alive and the books whispered as they breathed.
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At the bottom, beneath candlelight that gave no warmth,
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sat a robed figure with DS own face, smiling and waiting.
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The symbol appeared again in later notebooks, always subtle
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and always incomplete. He never spoke of the dream.
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Then, the years that followed, he would return to that symbol
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again and again, redrawing it, refining it, searching for its
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meaning across dozens of languages and forgotten
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grimoires. Even then, something had marked
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him, and whatever it was, it had not come from this world.
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By the time Queen Elizabeth ascended the throne, John Dee
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had become more than a scholar. He was a name that stirred awe
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and fear and equal measure. Her Majesty summoned him early
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in her reign. The young Queen, poised and
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unshaken, met with Dee and her lavender scented chamber at
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Whitehall. It was said she asked only one
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question. Is it true you can read the
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stars? To which he replied, I do not
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read them, Your Majesty, I listen to what they sing.
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So began his rise as England's celestial advisor.
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He chose the date of Elizabeth's coronation.
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The aligned treaties by planetary hour, war, diplomacy,
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even royal marriages passed through these calculations
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before they passed through Parliament.
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But beyond his duties to the Crown, Dee's ambition stretched
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far deeper. His estate at Moore Lake
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transformed into a labyrinth of scrolls, globes, instruments and
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mirrors. Books lined the walls, many
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forbidden, most written in tongues no ordinary man could
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translate. It was said his library rivaled
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Oxford's. Explorers and captains sought
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his counsel before crossing seas.
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Francis Drake visited him more than once and returned haunted,
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speaking in hushed tones of spectral lights above strange
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waters. Foreign diplomats left Moorlake
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whispering that Dee had not merely observed the future, he
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had spoken to it. To some he was a visionary, to
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others a heretic in disguise. At the center of it all stood D
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measuring orbits, composing invocations, drawing complex
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sigils by candlelight. Mathematics became music, music
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became vibration, vibration became prayer, and then prayer
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became something else entirely. He began constructing ritual
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circles in secret, fasting, reciting ancient names while
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gazing into Obsidian mirrors and calling out to the beyond.
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For a time, nothing answered. Then one evening, a strange
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mirror, black, glassy and cold as stone, began to hum.
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It had been delivered by a traitor from Venice, who claimed
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it came from a jungle temple in the New World.
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The man refused to enter the house and fled as soon as the
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mirror crossed the threshold. D placed the artifact in a
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western corner of his chamber, and soon after, strange things
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began to happen. A whisper in the dead of night.
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A shattered inkwell without cause, Unintelligible symbols
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drawn by unseen hands into the dust of his window seals.
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He began dreaming of faceless women crawling across ceilings,
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drawing sigils with their bleeding fingers.
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His hand would move without his will, writing phrases he did not
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understand. Jane D, his wife grew pale and
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fearful once she stood motionless before the mirror for
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nearly an hour. When Dee touched her shoulder,
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she screamed, claiming a voice had spoken her name from inside
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the glass. Their youngest child cried out
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each night, insisting an Angel without eyes stood at the foot
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of his bed. Yet still he persisted.
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He believed he had reached the edge of Heaven's veil.
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He did not yet understand that the veil, once torn.
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Let's anything through. The servants would later say the
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man never knocked. One moment.
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The estate at Moorlake was quiet, its halls filled with the
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usual creeks of old Timbers and rustling manuscripts.
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The next, a stranger stood just beyond the threshold, cloaked in
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what looked like Starlight woven into silk.
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He did not walk up the lane. No one saw a carriage.
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There were no footprints in the frost.
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He asked for John Dee by name. Dee met him at the door, and
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what followed remains one of the few events he never attempted to
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explain. The visitor carried no satchel
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or scroll, only a peculiar object in his hands, a brass
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timepiece, smooth as bone, its face covered in glass that
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shimmered like water. Its hands turned counter to
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time. It ticked softly, not like a
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clock, but like water dripping into an empty basin.
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The man asked Dee where he had been born.
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Dee told him. The stranger corrected him.
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He then took Dee's hand and whispered something so softly
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that no one else heard it. But whatever was said caused the
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scholar to be pale. He turned to fetch ink and
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parchment, and when he returned to the doorway, the visitor had
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vanished. No trace, no footprints, and no
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ticking clock. Later that night, Dee wrote a
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cryptic note in the margin of his astrological chart.
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A man of no century came to remind me.
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Not all visions are called. Some are sent.
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The mirror in the West Chamber began to hum again.
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Edward Kelly entered Dee's life like a crack of Thunder across a
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still pond. A man of shifting pasts and
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uncertain intentions, he arrived with rumors trailing behind him
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of grave robbing, forgery, and whispered seances and forgotten
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chapels. He was a scryer, he claimed, a
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man who could see beyond the veil.
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Dee, ever the seeker, did not hesitate.
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Their first invocation took place in a consecrated room
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within Mordlake. Dee had drawn the necessary
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circles in powdered silver at its center, and Obsidian shoe
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stone rested atop a carved pedestal.
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Kelly, trembling, sat before it while Dee recited Aladdin in
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vacation that had not been heard aloud for centuries.
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At first there was only silence, and Kelly's mouth opened not in
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speech but in awe. His eyes rolled back, his
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breathing changed. He began to describe what he
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saw. An enormous being of fire and
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geometry, crowned with 12 wings, speaking with a voice that
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fractured the air like glass. The being called itself Yoriel,
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and from that moment the sessions became daily D feverish
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with purpose, transcribed everything as Kelly channeled
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it, names of celestial beings, warnings of judgment, encrypted
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prophecies, and the foundations of what they came to call the
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Enochian language, a divine tongue said to have preceded
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Babel. The spirits demanded obedience.
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They dictated exact rituals and fasts.
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It required the construction of wax sigils called layman's, and
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requested tables of letters, setting grids that shifted as
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they spoke. Some symbols appeared in Kelly's
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skin overnight, blistered into his forearms without pain or
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cause. The most frequent visitor was
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Madimi. She first appeared as a young
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girl in a Crimson gown, speaking with a sing song voice, but in
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later visions she took the form of a winged woman crowned with
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blood and serpents, delivering paradoxes and riddles, sometimes
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weeping and other times laughing.
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You seek the throne, she told them once.
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But you walk the serpent's spine.
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Kelly suffered frequent collapses.
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Once, he did not rise for two days.
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He claimed that in the space between breaths, he had seen the
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edge of creation, a library of ash watched over by angels whose
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faces had no mouths. The house grew colder with each
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ritual. Servants refused to enter
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certain rooms. Jane Dee began sleeping in the
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eastern wing. Strange marks appeared on the
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children's bed sheets, shapes no one had drawn.
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One of the mirrors in the hallway shattered inward, though
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no one was near. And still the angels came.
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With each new session, Dee believed he was closer to
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something holy. But something was watching, even
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then, from beyond the mirror's edge.
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One night in late autumn, during a particularly grueling
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invocation, Edward Kelly's body went unnaturally still.
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The candlelight flickered violently.
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The air grew thick and metallic, as if the room itself had been
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buried underground. Then, without warning, Kelly
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convulsed. His eyes rolled upward and his
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lips parted as if to speak, but no sound came.
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His hand, ink stained and trembling, reached for a piece
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of chalk and drew a spiral onto the wooden floor.
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The symbol expanded slowly, precisely until the circle of
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invocation was covered in curling ash.
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John Dee, watching from across the ritual boundary, dared to
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speak. What do you see?
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He said. Kelly's voice returned, hollow
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and slow, as if echoing from a great depth.
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A throne, black, carved from stone, that bleach shadow.
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His eyes remained unfocused. It rests in a cavern beneath the
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world. There are eyes on the walls.
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100, maybe more watching, but blind.
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Dee leaned forward. Who sits upon it?
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Kelly began to shake it. It wears your name.
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He wept as he spoke. It has your hands, your voice,
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but it's face is gone. Kelly collapsed before he could
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say more. For three days, he did not rise.
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During that time, the spiral on the floor could not be removed.
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When they attempted to wash or scrub it away, the chalk only
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darkened, staining the wood like Sud.
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On the second night, the spiral began to glow faintly under the
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moonlight, even through the closed shutters, the attempted
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prayers and ritual purification, but nothing worked.
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At sunrise on the 4th day, the spiral had vanished, but only
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from sight. Its presence lingered like
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pressure in the mind. Later, when Dee reviewed the
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notes from that night, he found several pages had been
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overridden by unseen hands. Each contained the same phrase,
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repeated again and again. I sit where you would stand.
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The following entries were recovered from a sealed
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compartment in John Dee's library at Mortlake.
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Bounding Calfskin. The pages were splattered with
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candle wax, scorched at the corners, and in places smeared
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with what appeared to be blood. They were also not written in
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Dee's typical meticulous hand. March 4th, 1581.
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Mort Lake. They come now even when I do not
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call them. The scratching behind the walls
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has begun again. I hear wings above my bed,
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though the roof is still. The language flows through me
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like a fever, but I cannot stop riding.
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The phrases burn. I do not know who watches me.
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I fear they never stopped. March 21st, 1581.
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Vernal Equinox. Medimi appeared tonight with
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blood staining her mouth. When I demanded to know what
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offering had been taken, she smiled and pointed towards the
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nursery. Jane claims she heard only foxes
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in the night, but I know better. There are no foxes in Mortlake.
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April 2nd 1582. Kelly has drawn something he
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claims was dictated by Raphael himself, a sigil unlike any I
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have seen. Too sharp, too living, It burned
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into the desk as he inked it. The wood hissed.
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When I buried the parchment in the garden, I heard a scream
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beneath the soil. In these entries, Dee's usual
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confidence had frayed. He no longer questioned the
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veracity of the voices. He questioned only their intent.
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He had asked the spirits if they served the light.
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They had not answered. Only Medimi returned,
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transfigured, her eyes hollow, her wings weeping.
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Fire, she told him. There is light in the pit, but
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it is not holy. By 1582, John Dee had left
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England behind. He travelled across Europe,
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carrying trunks of scrolls and angelic tablets, trailing behind
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him, the lingering scent of burnt wax and scorched faith.
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At his side walked Edward Kelly, no longer just a scryer, but
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something more, something darker.
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The spirits had told them to go east, to the land of fire and
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crystal, to the place where men dream beneath stone.
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They went first to Krakow and to Prague, into the court of
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Emperor Rudolph the Second, a monarch enthralled by the
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occult, a man who collected philosophers like weapons.
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There, Dee and Kelly were received with awe and suspicion.
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They conducted ceremonies behind veiled doors.
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Priests watched them with clenched rosaries.
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It was in Prague that things began to change.
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The angels, if that's what they were, no longer waited to be
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summoned. They began appearing at will,
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through mirrors and reflections and voices rising from ink.
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Guests at the palace reported the air turning cold during
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these sessions. Others claim to see pale shapes
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moving across his walls, flickering like flames behind
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curtains. Kelly grew unstable.
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He stopped sleeping. He spoke in tongues, even
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outside of the ritual. He carved sigils into his arms,
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claiming they'd been dictated by Medimi herself.
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He drank heavily. Some nights.
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He stared at the shoe stone for hours, even after the ceremony
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had ended, muttering They are watching.
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They are inside me now. Once he disappeared for three
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days. When he returned, he was
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barefoot, cloaked in bloodied robes, and smelled of ash and
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rose water. He refused to speak of where he
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had been. Dee recorded visions more
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disturbing than anything before. 1 Spirit declared that the
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throne of Heaven had been emptied.
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Another whispered of a divine war that had already ended in
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failure, that mankind's creation was a correction of a celestial
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error. And then came the demand that
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destroyed them. In a voice that turned glass to
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frost, the supposed Angel now vege spoke.
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To bind yourselves in unity, you must share the vessel of flesh.
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You must share your wives. Dee wept.
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Jane Dee, faithful and long-suffering, collapsed in
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grief. Kelly said nothing, his face
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unreadable, but Dee obeyed. What happened that night in the
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upper Chamber of the estate was recorded in no journal.
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But something shifted forever after.
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Jane never looked Dee in the eye again.
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Kelly became hostile, erratic and paranoid.
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Their work faltered. In Poland, Kelly began refusing
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rituals. He accused Dee of manipulation,
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of twisting the will of the angels to serve his own ego.
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During one final invocation, he rose without warning and smashed
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the shoe stone with a hammer made of meteoric iron.
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They're devils, he screamed, and you are their scribe.
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He fled the next morning, taking stolen manuscripts and angelic
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tablets with him. Years later, word reached D that
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Kelly had fallen from a tower in Prague.
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Some said he had jumped, others that he had been thrown.
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His body was never recovered, but even in Mortlake, Dee swore
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he could still hear Kelly's voice.
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It came in the dark, just beyond the edges of sleep, whispering
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through shattered reflections. John, you opened the gate.
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You never closed it. When John Dee returned to Mord
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Lake in the waning years of the 16th century, he found nothing.
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As he had left it the once glorious library, his life's
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work had been ransacked. Scrolls and sacred volumes were
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gone. Precious grimoires have been
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torn apart, their pages used to stoke fires.
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What remained lay scattered across the floors like bones
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after a feast. His telescope had been
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shattered, his angelic instruments desecrated.
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Jane greeted him in the silence. His children, now older, offered
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him wary glances. Some refused to stay in the
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house after nightfall. The servants whispered behind
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doors. Locals crossed themselves.
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When he walked through town, Paddy, hallowed eyed and gaunt,
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resumed his work. He began to reconstruct the
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Enochian tablets from memory. Though the letters came broken,
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twisted, sometimes reversed, he no longer spoke aloud the
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angelic names. His voice cracked when he tried
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the spirits no longer required in vacation, they came on their
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own accord. At first they appeared in the
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reflections, eyes flickering in silver trays, faces behind
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mirrors that moved too quickly to see.
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But soon the manifestations became physical.
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Books flew from shelves, candles extinguished without wind.
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Voices whispered to his children through the walls.
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He sealed The West Wing of the house.
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Jane avoided the library entirely.
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She slept in a separate room, clutching A crucifix beneath her
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pillow. One night, D awoke to find
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Madimi standing in the garden. Her form had changed, her eyes
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hollow, her hair blackened with soot, her wings draped through
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the soil like wet silk. She did not speak.
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She only pointed towards the sky.
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The next morning, Dee discovered pages he had never written lying
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on his desk. They were in his hand, but bore
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no memory. The language was unlike anything
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that he had studied. Even the spirits had not spoken
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this way. He locked the pages away.
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Later he tried to burn them. They would not burn.
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In 16 O 5, Jane died. There were no last words, no
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blessings, only a mirror wrapped in red cloth left on the Mantel.
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Dee buried it in the garden, but for weeks afterward he heard her
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voice in the night, calling from beneath the earth.
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Why did you choose heaven over me?
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But by then, even Dee knew it had not been heaven he chose.
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It had been something that wore the divine like a mask.
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In the final days of his life, John Dee spoke little.
36:26
He wandered the darkened halls of Mortlake, mumbling to
36:30
himself, his hands forever stained with ink and wax.
36:36
Most believed his age had finally unraveled, the man once
36:40
hailed as England's greatest mind.
36:44
But those who saw him closely, who dared to look into his eyes,
36:49
sensed something else. He had not been abandoned by his
36:53
visions. They had returned at 9 de,
36:59
scribbled furiously in notebooks that no one was allowed to see.
37:04
He left the lamps lit until morning and sealed mirrors
37:09
behind iron laced clothes. A candle burned constantly in
37:13
the room where the shoe stone had once rested, though the
37:17
stone itself was long gone. One evening, neighbors reported
37:23
a sound low in resin and like a pipe organ buried deep
37:29
underground. Dee's home shook as if from a
37:33
distant Thunder, yet no storm had passed.
37:38
What happened inside the house that night was never recorded in
37:42
full, but the last pages of his surviving diary tell part of the
37:47
tale he wrote of voices returning not as distant
37:52
whispers but as shapes in the room.
37:56
They walked beside him, sat across from him at his desk.
38:02
They no longer spoke in symbols. They spoke in memory, he
38:09
claimed. Medini had come one final time,
38:13
her form shifting with each breath from child to woman,
38:20
skeleton and flame. She told him, You have written
38:26
the seals, and now we unseal you.
38:32
That night, every mirror and Mortley cracked from corner to
38:36
corner. Books bled ink onto the floors,
38:41
walls shook, light poured from beneath closed doors, and a wind
38:47
rose from nowhere. The final entry D ever wrote,
38:53
scribbled in an unsteady hand, read They did not find me, they
38:59
were waiting, and now that I've opened the gate, they are not
39:05
leaving. This is not a warning, this is a
39:10
map. After John Dee's death, no
39:14
priest came to bless the home. His manuscripts were locked away
39:19
or burned. His name was spoken only in
39:23
hushed tones by those who remembered the strange lights
39:27
that had once flickered behind his windows.
39:31
But for those who dared to examine what remained, those who
39:35
opened his Diaries, deciphered his sigils, and translated the
39:41
ravings scrawled into the margins of his final days, a
39:47
terrifying vision emerged. He had believed that he had
39:51
unlocked something beyond the bounds of human reason, not
39:55
simply divine knowledge, but the architecture of reality itself.
40:01
He had spoken with entities claiming to be angels, beings of
40:06
immense wisdom, beauty, and terror.
40:11
And in doing so, he had torn a hole in the fabric of the world.
40:18
He wrote of gardens made of fire, of libraries that
40:23
whispered, of Thrones surrounded by watching eyes, of souls that
40:30
sang in languages no living man should ever know.
40:36
Those who studied Dee's work today still argue over the truth
40:40
of his visions. Were they hallucinations born of
40:44
obsession and sleep deprivation? Or were they something more,
40:50
something real, or perhaps ancient?
40:54
One line, found inscribed in fading ink behind the binding of
40:59
his journal, remains the most debated.
41:03
The spirits do not lie, but they do not tell the whole truth.
41:10
And beneath that, written in trembling script, walk lightly.
41:15
Dear reader, the path to heaven is lined with fire.
41:22
Long after his bones turned to dust, his work lived on, studied
41:27
by kings, feared by priests, whispered about secret orders
41:34
who still use his sigils to open locked doors between worlds.
41:39
What he saw may never be fully understood, but one thing is
41:44
certain, once you call to the other side, it listens and
41:51
sometimes it answers. Thank you guys so much for
41:57
watching this latest episode. I apologize for the wait but I
42:01
hope it was worth it. Please like this video if you
42:04
liked it, subscribe if you haven't already and please
42:07
comment and share this video around.
42:10
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merchandise and consider becoming a patron on Patreon or
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a channel member by clicking join here on YouTube.
42:24
I hope all of you are doing well.
42:27
I know sometimes it can be a struggle and I just want to
42:30
remind you that it's OK to not be OK sometimes and to Please
42:35
remember to take care of yourself mentally, physically,
42:39
and spiritually because you're worth it.
42:43
Anyways, love you guys. Thanks for being awesome, and
42:47
I'll see you again with another brand new episode very soon.
42:51
This has been Cody here at Mystery Archives.
42:53
Make sure to stay safe out there.
42:56
Take care and I'll see you next time.