The Lament of the Bayou Witch
A reality show crew goes into the Atchafalaya for a Halloween special. The swamp answers back.
Delaney Knox is a disgraced producer trying to rebuild her career with a cheap, high-impact ghost show. She knows how to manufacture dread in the edit suite. She does not believe in curses, and she does not believe in warnings.
In the Louisiana basin, the crew finds a half-sunk trapper's shack, ritual "offerings," and a silence that lands in the trees like a held breath. Then the audio starts to misbehave. A low hum threads through every recording, clean, steady, impossible to filter out. Under it, voices surface in the static, not random voices, but the ones that can split you open.
The Bayou Witch is not a spellcaster. She is a frequency that harmonizes with grief. If you carry a hollow space inside you, the song finds the shape of it. It comforts first, then it owns.
As the crew's footage begins to loop, corrupt, and replay their worst moments with surgical intimacy, they realize the true danger is not what they saw in the reeds. It is what they brought back, and what they are about to broadcast.
A Southern Gothic folk-horror thriller where sound becomes infection, and the camera becomes a mouth.
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