November 7th, 2025

LAVEAU, LA – I was supposed to be covering a street rave. That’s what my editor told me. “Bring your camera, take some photos, get a few quotes. The Ledger wants local color.”

But there was nothing local about what happened in Port Laveau last night.

They called it Devil’s Night, a party meant to close out the spooky season. I thought it was a Halloween hangover – masks, music, and moonlight. But under the bass and laughter, there was something else in the air. Something wrong.

At first, it was surreal, strobe lights cutting through bayou fog, the smell of sweat and smoke and sweet rot. Dancers swaying in latex and blood paint. I remember thinking it was art – grotesque, but staged. Until it wasn’t.

The man in the horned mask appeared near the gas station. The sound of his voice both warped and hellish cut through like a broken transmission.

He had a blade.
He had a woman in his sights.
That woman was me.

I snapped a picture and prayed the flash would blind him. It didn’t. I ran. Someone else, a young man, stepped in, and the air split with screaming. Metal hitting flesh.

Then:
No cops.
No emergency lines.
No signal.
I couldn’t call for help even if I wanted to.

That’s when everything fell apart.

From the rooftops, something – no, someone – screamed, and a head fell into the crowd. An actual human head, slick, wet, thudding on the concrete like grotesque rain. I looked up to see horned, devilish shadows on the rooftop of a building I now know as Empire Tattoo. Others didn’t. We were surrounded.

I tried to take pictures. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. One shot caught a silhouette, a tall woman in a silvery mask. I didn’t know what she wanted when she grabbed me by the arm, yanking me towards conversation I didn’t wish to have. I got the distinct impression I was being hunted. Prey like so many others.

Her grip was iron. I smelled metal and perfume and something sweetly rotten. She whispered something, I screamed, fought back. A threat. A warning given all while the metal twisted on her face and became all too vivid and real. She released me then. I don’t know if she meant to kill me, or just wanted to taste the fear.

I hid behind a dumpster while the music still played. People still danced unknowingly or oblivious. I wanted to scream at all of them to save themselves.

I took as many pictures as I could as I ran – blurry proof that Devil’s Night wasn’t just a rave, it was a hunt.

By dawn, the streets were empty. No police tape. No ambulances. Just drag marks where bodies should have been.

I don’t know what the hell Port Laveau is – a town, a stage, a trap – but I know this:
Something evil lives here, and it wears a smile.

This was my first story for The Laveau Ledger.
If you’re reading this, it means I made it out long enough to file.

– Camille Dupont, Staff Reporter