Screams, Skeletons and a Very Dirty Peasant

Saturday 24 October 2026

We had tickets to go up Blackpool Tower. Unfortunately, the wind had other plans.

It was blowing so hard that the Tower had closed to visitors. We stood outside in the rain, looking up at the grey clouds and wondering what to do instead. I’d been looking forward to the view from the top, but there wasn’t much point arguing with the weather.

Then someone suggested the Blackpool Tower Dungeon.

There were four of us: Dana, Luke, Ellen and me. A trip to the top of the Tower had suddenly turned into a trip underneath it, where we would pay good money to be frightened, accused of crimes and dropped through the air. I thought it sounded like a good alternative. Dana gave me one of her looks, but she was smiling.

Luke and Ellen posed for a photograph beneath the Tower. At that point, none of us knew quite what we’d signed up for.

A glowing DROP DEAD gorgeous! sign surrounded by skulls and twisted branches gave us a taste of the establishment’s hospitality. Dana and Ellen smiled beneath it. The skulls seemed less cheerful.

A second sign declared WAIT HERE. Your time will come. It was not the most comforting welcome.

Inside, the first thing that struck me was the smell. It was strong and pungent, the sort of smell that made you wonder what might be waiting around the next corner. The dim lighting and strange sounds added to the feeling that we’d stepped into somewhere we probably shouldn’t be.

Before the tour began, the staff took a series of photographs of all four of us. They told us to look frightened, which wasn’t difficult in that setting. Then they handed us axes and took more pictures. We laughed and posed, but none of us could work out what the photographs were for.

As we moved through the Dungeon, we discovered the clever trick. Our photographs appeared in the different scenes, making us part of the story. The frightened faces and the axes suddenly made sense. It was a lovely touch that linked the rooms together and gave us something else to laugh about.

The Lift Jester: Going down

Our first encounter was with a mischievous jester who accompanied us into a medieval lift. In ordinary life, a lift is a practical means of changing floors. In the Dungeon, it is an opportunity for someone in questionable headwear to explain that your immediate future looks bleak.

I glanced at Dana.

‘Well, at least we’re going down,’ I offered.

She gave me the look reserved for statements that are technically correct but entirely unhelpful.

The Dark Chapel: An unholy welcome

We emerged into the Dark Chapel, where a sinister monk introduced the history of Lytham Priory. The shadows, stonework and solemn voice made it clear that this wasn’t going to be one of those cheerful heritage tours where someone tells you how monks brewed beer.

I rather liked the atmosphere. The damp, ancient-looking stonework and the monk’s solemn delivery made it feel as though we’d wandered several centuries away from the bright amusement arcades outside. Dana was less convinced by my enthusiasm for dark rooms occupied by threatening strangers. She stayed close enough for us to share the joke, which is one of the pleasures of travelling together: I usually volunteer the optimism, and she provides the judgement.

The Plague Doctor: The operation nobody wanted

The Plague Doctor took us back to 1349. A patient lay on a table, and the doctor began pulling organs from the body while we watched. It was horrible and funny at the same time.

Then he reached the bladder.

It was stuck. He pulled once, then again. Suddenly it came free, and a spray of fluid shot towards us.

We jumped back and burst out laughing. I turned to Dana, who was laughing too, and that only made it worse. We knew it was all pretend, but nobody had expected to get sprayed.

But the doctor hadn’t finished. Behind a curtain, he was building Frankenstein’s monster using the best parts from the body on the bench.

He took out the heart. It was still beating.

Then he stopped. He’d forgotten something important.

Frankenstein needed a brain.

The doctor carefully removed the brain and carried it behind the curtain. Next came a bang, followed by another shower of fluid that hit us. By now we were laughing and trying to work out what he might throw at us next.

At last, the doctor was ready to bring the monster to life. He reached for the power switch.

Unfortunately, he pulled the wrong one.

A small electric shock came through the wooden seats, right under our bottoms. We shot upwards in surprise. One moment we’d been watching the doctor, and the next we were part of his experiment.

I don’t know which was funnier: the shock itself or seeing the others jump. Dana and I looked at each other and started laughing again. The Dungeon was very good at catching us when we least expected it.

The Torturer: Yorkshire, tongues and an inch at a time

Lancaster Castle’s torture chamber was the sort of place where you immediately became very interested in standing at the back. Chains dangled from the walls, sinister instruments glinted in the half-light, and the Torturer had the cheerful manner of someone who genuinely loved her work.

First, a lady from Yorkshire was locked in a cage.

What had she done to deserve such treatment? Nothing at all, apparently, apart from being from Yorkshire. In medieval Lancashire, this was evidently sufficient evidence for a conviction.

We all laughed, including the lady in the cage, who threw herself into the performance. It was becoming clear that the real danger wasn’t the torture equipment but being noticed by the actor.

Then another unfortunate man was selected and put in the chair. Things deteriorated rather quickly.

First, his tongue was theatrically ripped out. Then came a hook in the back of his skull, followed by the suggestion that he might be hung up for everyone’s inspection. The Torturer delivered each new horror with such enthusiasm that you almost forgot this was supposed to be a family day out.

And then she introduced the willy cutter.

This particular instrument, we were informed, would remove an inch at a time.

An inch at a time!

I glanced around at the other men in the room. There are some moments when the entire male population achieves perfect understanding without a single word being spoken.

The poor volunteer played along magnificently, reacting to every fresh indignity, while the rest of us winced, howled and laughed. It was all play-acting, of course, but that was the joy of it. The audience weren’t merely watching the show. They had become part of it, and everyone seemed determined to give the actors something to work with.

Even knowing that nobody was actually going to lose a tongue, a skull or anything more personal, I found myself standing just a little further from the chair.

We left the torture chamber laughing, relieved that the volunteers had been such good sports and even more relieved that the Torturer hadn’t picked me.

The Conspiracy: Trust absolutely nobody

The Conspiracy tested loyalties and secrets. This was particularly unfair, given that the four of us had arrived as friends and were now being encouraged to consider whether friendship was really worth the trouble.

I have always believed myself a dependable travelling companion. Dana has travelled with me often enough to know that this belief is not universally supported by the evidence. We exchanged a grin in the gloom. Whatever secrets the room wanted us to surrender, we had plenty of material to work with.

Courtroom: Guilty of absolutely everything

By the time we reached Judge Blackheart’s courtroom, we’d learnt that innocence was not a particularly useful defence in medieval Lancashire. The judge had a magnificent wig, a booming voice and the sort of expression that suggested he’d already decided the verdict before anyone had sat down.

The first woman to be called forward was accused of dancing naked at the top of Blackpool Tower.

Now, there are several problems with this allegation, not least the wind at that height in October. But the judge wasn’t interested in practicalities. The accusation was delivered with such theatrical outrage that we all burst out laughing, while the poor woman played along beautifully.

Next came a man whose alleged offence was doing unspeakable things to sheep. His punishment? Banishment to Wales.

The courtroom erupted. I don’t think any of us had expected international relocation to feature quite so prominently in the sentencing guidelines. The man took it in good humour, and the judge pressed on as though this were a perfectly ordinary afternoon’s work.

By now, we were laughing so much that every new accusation seemed funnier than the last. The volunteers were brilliant, joining in rather than simply standing there looking embarrassed, and Judge Blackheart knew exactly how to make the most of them.

Then it was Ellen’s turn.

Luke and Dana pointed at her. I joined in, showing precisely the sort of loyalty you’d hope for from close friends. Ellen was left holding a placard that read DIRTY PEASANT.

I couldn’t tell you what Ellen had done to earn her title. Neither, I suspect, could the prosecution. But with three of us pointing confidently at her, she never stood a chance.

We left the courtroom still laughing. Ellen had taken her conviction with admirable good humour, and the rest of us were in no position to claim innocence. If that was how the legal system worked, I was very glad nobody had asked about my driving.

The Labyrinth: Google Maps unavailable

The Labyrinth was a maze of mirrors and lost souls. For someone who has confidently followed Google Maps into the wrong place on more than one occasion, it was almost reassuring to find a location where everybody was equally lost.

Every apparent exit produced another reflection. Each turn offered the possibility of freedom, followed immediately by the discovery that we’d been admiring ourselves in a mirror.

‘Are you sure it’s this way?’ Dana asked.

‘Absolutely.’

‘You’ve said that before.’

I kept choosing a direction with the confidence of a man who has never allowed a lack of evidence to spoil a good route. Dana’s expression told me she recognised the technique. At least Google Maps couldn’t make matters worse.

The Séance: Ellen takes charge

The Séance room was dark and quiet, with a table and a Ouija board waiting for us. Madame Mary Wade was there to lead the séance, but she needed someone from the audience to help.

She chose Ellen.

Ellen was brought to the front and placed at the head of the table, where she was supposed to control the séance. We watched her take her place, wondering what was about to happen.

At first, the lights flickered. Then lightning flashed around the room. Things began to move, and the pointer on the Ouija board slid across the letters as though it were answering questions.

Bells above the table started ringing.

Then everything went dark.

Suddenly, it began to rain inside the room. Before we could make sense of that, another flash of lightning lit up a man standing nearby.

And then he was gone.

A second flash showed him on the other side of the room.

That was genuinely frightening. We knew it was a show, but in the darkness, with the bells ringing and the sudden flashes of light, it was impossible to guess where he would appear next. I found myself watching the corners of the room instead of the table.

Then we were quickly ushered out. There wasn’t much chance to discuss what had happened until we were safely in the next room.

Ellen had been given control of the séance. I’m not sure any of us felt she had much control over what followed.

The Witch’s Curse: Elizabeth Device awaits

At Lancaster Castle, Elizabeth Device awaited her fate. By now, we’d discovered that seventeenth-century Lancashire was not the ideal destination for anyone hoping for a fair hearing.

The accusations, fear and dark surroundings gave the story a sharper edge. Beneath the theatrical scares was the uncomfortable thought that real people had suffered because suspicion had been allowed to become certainty.

For a moment, the jokes could wait.

The Pendle Witches: Into the woods

The haunted woods of Pendle brought us back into the shadows, with witchcraft accusations seemingly waiting behind every tree. The sound effects were expertly timed to make perfectly rational adults jump at things they knew were coming.

The woods had a way of making us bunch closer together, then laugh at ourselves for doing so. After all the exaggerated threats of the earlier rooms, it was the simple uncertainty of what might be hiding in the darkness that got to us.

Another photograph put us beside a hooded figure with a scythe beneath a huge moon. It was difficult to tell whether we’d met Death or simply another member of staff having a difficult shift.

Drop Dead: The final punishment

After surviving the rest of the Dungeon, we reached the Drop Dead ride. A sudden vertical plunge was apparently considered a suitable reward for our cooperation.

The photograph caught Dana and me at the exact moment the ride dropped. My mouth was wide open. Dana’s eyes were screwed shut, her teeth clenched and her hair flying upwards.

I would like to report that we handled the experience with composure. Fortunately, the photographs make such a claim impossible.

The Red Lion: Back among the living

At last came the Red Lion, a tavern where survivors could recover with a drink. After the plague, torture, witchcraft and sudden falling, the sight of a bar felt like a welcome return to civilisation.

Outside, the wind was still blowing and the Tower was still closed. But we weren’t disappointed any more. We’d spent the afternoon laughing at each other, jumping at things we couldn’t see and watching complete strangers join in the fun.

The best part wasn’t any single room. It was seeing Dana laugh when the bladder sprayed us, watching Ellen take her place at the séance table, and finding out that even a wooden seat could give you a fright. The unexpected change of plan had given us a story we’d be telling for years.

We had survived the Dungeon and emerged as four free citizens, with photographs that would be brought out whenever anyone claimed to be brave.

Well, three free citizens.

Ellen was still a dirty peasant.