Tumbledown
What lurks beyond the point when a dreamer wakes?
The shattered remains of the castle we call Tumbledown glower in the twilight, as if its ancient broken stones still radiate a deep resentment. The craggy remnants of once tremendous towers point accusingly at the sky like broken blasphemous fingers. I must have been warned a thousand times not to come here.
The dilapidated ruins lie deep in the woods, where nobody goes. Some say an abominable horror lurks within its dilapidated walls, even though no one has ever reliably explained what the real peril might be. It was as though an primaeval fear had seeped into our community’s collective memory generations ago, but with the truth now long forgotten, only a dark inexplicable stain of dread remained.
No one can even say how the sprawling fortress fell into ruin. I’ve heard fables, of the night it was smashed to smithereens by the incandescent embers of a shooting star. The devout of our congregation say divine providence razed it to ashes with a storm of celestial fire.
Before everything went wrong, I loved to run. I adored scampering down narrow paths, exploring new routes that would take me far beyond the outskirts of my parochial little village, and out into the dense foreboding woods I’d been warned not to enter. It was uncanny how whatever path I followed, they always seemed to converge on the old ramshackle castle.
For years I’d regarded this place as a mere grave of dead stones. One where I could only pay my respects at a distance. The site was surrounded by a deep moat, which after centuries of neglect was now a grim slimy quagmire choked by a tangle of brambles, their thick stems prickling with savage thorns. From across the uncrossable gap, I’d stare into the gloomy gaps between the fallen stones that swallowed light like holes within a weathered skull.
Yet my perception of the castle was to change on the night of the lunar eclipse. Whilst the whole village gathered on the common for a modest party, I took a torch and sneaked off at twilight to witness the event in meditative silence at the eerie ruins. I watched the dim shadow creep across the distant orb, tinting everywhere with ruby moonlight. Then, for just the briefest moment, I glimpsed the castle as never before.
The castle was intact. Magisterial. Glorious. I saw the edifice shimmering, translucent, glimmering red, as if it had been miraculously rebuilt with monstrous walls of frozen blood.
My fleeting vision became indelibly imprinted on my mind. After that experience, I began to see the castle as I slept, but in a different way from the surreal jumbled imagery of usual dreams. Now when I saw the castle it was not as a heap of rubble, but as resplendent as it had ever been. Gold and scarlet banners billowed like stupendous sails from huge round towers. The deep waters of the moat sparkled like a brilliant blue ribbon. Even from afar I could see the warm glow emanating from the narrow windows, alluding to the palatial luxury within.
Under the strange red moonlight I perceived something beyond seeing. That the essence of the mammoth structure endured, perhaps not in my reality, but one nearby. Each time the castle appeared in my dreams, I’d sneak a little further inside. I began to question my elders’ agenda, and why they’d conspired to scare me away. All my life I’d been so respectful of their rules. I’d always been so deferential, I’d finished my education with the highest accomplishments. Now a gnawing hunger was growing inside me, the urge to disobey their petty strictures.
In my dreams I always arrive at the castle to find its drawbridge lowered. I venture into an interior that’s archaically opulent. I furtively explore the long narrow passages, peering around every corner, into the cavernous kitchens and packed pantries. I boldly creep up the staircases and spy inside the sumptuous bedrooms of its regal occupants. I feel the queasy thrill of transgression, escalating with every tip-toed footstep. In my dreams I learn the exhilarating rush of being naughty.
Until I feel a strong hand grab my arm.
That was when I’d always wake. Extremely, often painfully aroused. I’d masturbate urgently in the darkness, my hand moving under my bedsheets as I imagined just how my trespass would end. I knew there was only one penalty for naughtiness in this castle. I’d be bent over by the intimidating authority figure, one I’d never actually glimpsed, who existed only as a looming shadow in my mind. And I would be sternly punished.
In my mind, each visit to the castle became a game of hide and seek. There had to be some jeopardy involved, and the prospect of a well-smacked bottom certainly provided that. There was no fun in running away, no thrill in hiding without the risk of being found. There was a catharsis in being discovered.
So many look at castles yet fail to realise its foundations are dungeons. Few ever appreciate the whole edifice is literally built upon spaces devoted to pain and punishment.
My obsession with the crumbling castle grew with every dream incursion, and every imagined spanking afterwards. But slowly I was realising what really turned me on, was getting caught.
After the eclipse, it was a while until I returned to the ruins. I remember it was a cool autumn morning, and I had been running through the woods over a crackling copper carpet of freshly fallen leaves. I arrived to find the fallen stones fringed by canopies in every shade of red and yellow and amber - as if this forsaken place had been incarcerated within a ring of rustling flames.
As I got closer, I noticed something had changed. A spindly tree had snapped and toppled, and now lay across the ditch of thorns. I approached to investigate, and noticed the stump bore the straight hack marks of an axe, and knew this tree had been deliberately felled. I never suspected that I was looking at the first domino to topple, that an awful chain of consequences had already been set in motion.
I looked down the length of the trunk and through a narrow gap, I was able to see all the way across to the blocks of masonry that lay scattered on the other side, where withered ivy clung to the rubble like a filigree of desiccated veins. Along the trunk, small branches had been hacked and snapped. It was clear that someone else had already clambered across it.
I can’t explain it, but somehow I could sense the stranger’s presence, close enough to touch. I reached in the direction of the ruins, and could feel their rapid heartbeat thrum against my fingertips. It was as if adrenaline was already fizzing through their body, though it was impossible to tell whether it was caused by the exhilaration of running, or the sickly dread of fear.
Knowing that someone else had ventured ahead of me changed everything. The far side seemed closer than it had ever been before. In that moment, I impetuously decided to follow, leaping onto the back of the fallen tree, and across into the forbidden realm where angels fear to tread. I had to see what was beyond my dreams, past the point where they always stopped.
I crept across the log carefully, mindful of the perilous thickets of filthy thorns just beneath my impromptu bridge. When I reached the end, I hopped back onto the ground. The short drop should have been instantaneous, but it seemed to occur in slow motion. I was overcome by dizziness, as everything around me appeared to contort in impossible directions.
When I recovered my awareness, I was kneeling on all fours, my head sagging like a heavy weight. When I mustered the strength to look up, I was staggered to see the monumental castle looming over me like a vertiginous cliff. I immediately noticed the castle walls were completely intact. It took me several moments more before I realised the sky had vanished. In its place was an unnerving expanse of inky blackness.
I staggered upright, wobbling uncertainly, and peered around my feet. It seemed I was standing on a drawbridge, which jutted into the all-enveloping void like a pirate’s baleful plank. Around me there was no moat, and no ground, just the castle hovering somehow amid an endless darkness.
Terrified by teetering on the edge of a seemingly bottomless abyss, I instinctively scampered for shelter. I dashed through the castle’s imposing gatehouse, and into the grand entrance hall beyond. Just as I’d foreseen in my dreams, everything inside was perfectly pristine. The flickering flames of dozens of candelabras bathed the spacious interior in a mellow welcoming light.
I was still deeply disturbed by the abruptness of the transition I’d just experienced. Moments ago I’d been approaching what I’d thought were familiar ruins, and my only concern was trying not to stumble off a precariously balanced log. Now it was as if the catastrophe that once wrecked this place had never actually happened. I could not explain it, only that I knew I’d glimpsed this place intact once before, when it momentarily shimmered under the eerie glow of a crimson moon.
I explored my new surroundings tentatively, my muddy shoes crassly sinking into the plush velvet carpet. Bewildered and disoriented, my eyes instinctively searched for familiar objects that might help anchor myself. That was when I noticed the walls of the grand hall were decorated with a multitude of picture frames of greatly varying sizes.
At first I thought the painted limbs and faces were an unremarkable collection of portraits. It was only when I looked more closely that I realised something extremely curious. None of the portraits depicted a complete individual. Instead, the subject of every painting seemed to be spread across several frames, all set slightly apart so I could see the bare wall behind.
Each picture appeared to have been painted in oils by an old master’s hand, and all were perplexingly realistic. I found myself looking upwards at a small frame showing a tuft of someone’s hair. Beside it was what I presumed were the same individual’s eyes, but in two separate frames.
Below, where their nose should have been was a gap, and then a larger more ornate frame that depicted their mouth, chin, and throat. Each region the artist had captured was closely cropped, giving the subject an uncanny, unnerving appearance. The visage looked feminine, but with so much left unseen, it was difficult to say for sure.
The subject’s body was depicted into two smaller frames, containing their shoulders and upper chest, above one showing just their lower torso. They appeared to be wearing a long pale flowing garment, possibly a dress or a robe, though it wasn’t a fashion I recognised. Given the sepulchral silence here, it could easily have been a shroud.
Their right arm was in a horizontal frame, outstretched as if pointing down the hallway, whilst their left arm, in a tall narrow frame, hung by their side. Both legs had been painted in a single tall frame positioned just above the floor.
The effect was highly disconcerting. Like the subject was actually standing inside the wall, and partially revealed by little windows in its surface bordered by gilded picture frames. The eyes were especially unnerving, staring through me, as if they were imploring me. Then to my horror, they blinked.
I recoiled in shock, as other sections of the portrait began to twitch. Some strange witchcraft was animating the picture, making it look like the subject was waking from an interminable slumber.
I backed away, wary of turning my back on this grotesque enchantment. When I was far enough away I turned and broke into a trot, which became a run, and I didn’t stop until I reached what must have been the kitchens. Here huge soot-caked hearths gaped in the walls like the mouths of gloomy caverns, though none contained a fire. The aroma of cooked food was unusually absent, and I could see nothing edible on the table tops, just scattered utensils, and stacks of pots and pans. It was like the memory of a kitchen, rather than a functioning one.
There seemed little of interest to warrant staying here, so I edged towards the nearest door. I tipped its latch and tried to ease it open, but its hinges betrayed me with a pitiful groan. Behind it was a flight of grey stone stairs that descended into an ominous gloom. The prospect of discovering the dungeons was more intriguing, so I stepped back into the kitchen to find a source of light.
“I wouldn’t go down there,” said a voice behind me.
A young woman stepped out of the shadows. I didn’t recognise her, and she didn’t seem particularly surprised to see me.
“This castle does not sit on stone. Ye who delve too deep will tumble down. To the last depth and the deepest lair. The farthest point from Heaven that encircles all.”
She recited those last lines like poetry, although I couldn’t identify the source. I edged away from the stairs, and acutely aware I might be rudely intruding in her home, politely enquired if she lived here.
“Oh no. I’m an explorer, just like you.”
I couldn’t place her accent, she spoke with the slow erudite deliberation that suggested she’d read a lot of books. She appeared slightly older than me, with short unfussy brown hair in a style chosen for practically rather than elegance. She was dressed in navy trousers and a dark wool jacket, and wore sturdy walking boots. A small backpack was slung casually over her shoulder, with a small handaxe tied to one side. My guess was she’d travelled some distance to visit the ruins, and seemed well prepared for an expedition into the wilderness, or far beyond.
Whilst her body language was upright and confident, I was conscious of my own skulking gait, which exposed me as an imposter who didn’t belong here. Desperate to make a better impression, and not just stand dumbly like a stupified fool, I asked her if she had explored much of the castle.
To my surprise, she answered with a grin. “Oh! This place is quite marvellous!”
She pointed at a long cooking spoon, which was lying abandoned on one of the nearby kitchen tables. I peered at it sceptically. It wasn’t fashioned from silver or even elaborately decorated, merely a mundane wooden spoon, with the faint stains and smudges that inevitably came from stirring countless dinners.
I hesitated, unsure of its significance, prompting her to mime the action of picking it up. I did as she encouraged. As soon as my fingers closed around its handle, a hot wave of shame flashed across me, as if a fierce scorching wind was suddenly blasting from the maw of every fireplace. I felt the heat burn my cheeks, it was the queasy shame of being caught, condemned not just as an intruder, but as a thief.
Then something appeared to take control of me, like I’d been turned into a puppet. I was powerless to prevent myself from bending over the table. I felt my arm reach back, and I began to spank myself repeatedly with the spoon. I struggled to wrestle back control, but I felt almost disembodied, as if I was standing behind myself trying to tug my own arm back.
I continued smacking until my bottom was painfully sore. As the stinging grew, I felt the sensation of guilt diminish, and my command over my own body increasing, until I was finally able to wrest control from the strange force that had appropriated me.
When I was finally able to stop whacking, I rose and replaced the spoon reverently on the table. I was surprised to hear myself contritely apologise for disturbing it.
“Good, isn’t it?” she beamed. It was obvious she’d relished watching her little prank.
When I asked her if she’d tried it too, she didn’t reply, but her sly smirk told me not only had she tried it, but she’d greatly enjoyed the experience too.
“It feeds off your guilt. Because you know you shouldn't be here. You can’t put it down until your bum is rightfully sore.”
The tone of her voice abruptly changed, as if, in the far distance, she had just heard something precious smashing.
“Fun’s over. We must go.”
I looked at her dumbly, and complained that I’d only just got here.
“It will be back soon.”
I began to bombard her with a barrage of incredulous questions. Starting with: who was It?
“The Master of this place. It’s returned because there’s two of us here now.”
How do you know all this?
“This is not my first visit. I first came here with someone else.”
What? What happened?
“It chased us.”
These were disturbing revelations. Where was her companion now?
“He got caught. I escaped.”
What happened to him?
“How should I know?” she responded, defensively.
But you came back?
“There are such extraordinary marvels in this place. It seems safe as long as you’re alone. I felt your arrival. You felt my presence too, didn’t you?”
I nodded.
“Well, so does It. And two heartbeats are enough to pluck the spider’s web.”
We scurried out of the kitchen, retracing our steps towards the hall of portraits. I could already feel a malign force approaching, a sense of dread overshadowing me.
We halted in a small atrium as something seemed to be happening ahead. At the far end of the long gallery, in the direction of the gatehouse, a slick of pure darkness was spilling towards us. It seemed to be pouring through the hall like a relentless black tide, snuffing out the candles as it passed. It was also cutting off our immediate route of escape.
Fear makes us behave irrationally. In retrospect we should have stuck together, but the menacing rush of darkness made us scatter in opposite directions. I weaved to my right and sprinted down a corridor, looking over my shoulder to see my companion darting to her left and hurtling up a staircase.
The chest-constricting pinch of fear diminished the further I ran, until I began to question why I was fleeing at all. Perhaps that dark tide was just a flood, the consequence of broken plumbing rather than a menacing rift in reality. I climbed the next staircase I found, reasoning if the ground floor had been swamped, going higher would at least keep my feet dry. Then I doubled back, hoping to encounter my mysterious companion again, who was - I had to admit - the only one who seemed to know anything about this unnatural place.
I roamed the castle, trying to orient myself. I didn’t have time to explore its countless rooms, my priority was finding a way back to the gatehouse, and the spot on the drawbridge where this freakish realm and my own world seemed to be conjoined. My only hope was being able to return the way I came.
Then I felt It again. It was looking for me. Chasing me. The sensation made my skin prickle with goosebumps, and my stinging bottom tingle. I knew if I was caught, I’d get far worse.
I quickened my pace, and started to look over my shoulder compulsively. I dashed along the lavishly decorated passages, certain that the prickling on the back of my neck was the hot stale breath of my pursuer. The castle seemed much larger inside than I’d remembered from walking around the thorny ditch that surrounded its ruins.
As I was running, I heard something in the distance.
A voice. Bawling. Begging. Pleading.
The noises were getting closer, so I followed them to their source. Until they seemed to be emanating from behind a closed door. None of the other doors had light spilling from the gap underneath, there was someone in the room beyond.
I checked behind me, then knelt in front of the door, and aligned my eye with the chunky keyhole. Through the narrow gap I was amazed to see the unmistakable round mounds of a bare bottom. The pleading voice was unmistakable, it was the mysterious explorer I’d just met.
I moved my head in every possible direction, trying to change my perspective and witness more. She was bending over the bottom of her bed. There was a blur of movement that was difficult to discern with my restricted view, and accompanying whacks, muffled by the intervening door.
Now I could see a slipper against her bottom. Then another blur of motion, and another succession of muted whacks.
I realised she must have been caught, and immediately felt a surge of relief. Details from my fantasies flooded back, where the penalty for trespass was a very sore bottom. Even what little I could see was absolutely captivating. Her trousers and underwear were bunched around her ankles. Her pert athletic cheeks had already developed blotchy pink patches. I must admit my hand moved down between my legs.
Yet the more I watched, the more something seemed oddly out of place. I strained my neck, moving my eye around the keyhole, trying to get a better view.
Then I saw that she was holding the slipper. She was spanking her own bottom.
A chill ran through me. If she was spanking herself. Where was the abomination that was chasing us?
The last feeling I can ever remember was something immeasurably strong grabbing my arm. What followed was the sensation of plummeting, as if some foul tentacle had erupted from the abyss and snatched me from a boat. I plunged into the darkest depths. Instantly swallowed by absolute blackness.
Time is different now. My consciousness drifts like a marooned sailor on a sunless ocean, replaying past memories, sometimes wracked by terrible tempests of nightmares and disturbing dreams. I suspect something ghastly has happened, but that my mind is trying to hide it from me.
In this dark limbo I’ve endlessly contemplated the events that brought me here, and the mysterious stranger I encountered. When we met, she didn’t ask me my name, or express any surprise I’d ventured here. She didn’t even say hello. I keep thinking about what she told me. How objects here feed off your guilt.
She must have known I wouldn’t be able to resist spying on her. I witnessed her spanking herself so hard. If the slipper had been feeding off her guilt, she must have had much to feel guilty about. I suspect by entrapping me, she enabled her own escape. She sacrificed me. She intended me to be caught.
My torpor is interrupted by a dazzling flash of light. From my vantage point high on the wall, I stare down on the grand hall again. How I had forgotten the simple joy of being bathed in warm candlelight.
A figure I don’t recognise is standing in front of me, regarding my fragmented portrait with grotesque fascination, just as I once did.
I stare out imploringly from within the frame that imprisons me. The essence of all I once was has been sucked out and shattered into pieces. My mouth is trapped on a canvas beneath my beseeching eyes.
If only I could talk, I could warn you.
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@spankingtheatre 2023