In New Orleans, “being extra” isn’t a phase. It’s a cultural skill. This is a city where people don’t just attend events—they perform them. Where style is storytelling. Where a costume isn’t just something you wear, it’s something you become. And where the line between “regular life” and “main character energy” is… pleasantly blurry. So why do New Orleanians love becoming characters? Because here, character is tradition.

In most cities, Halloween is a night. In New Orleans, October is a lifestyle choice. Somewhere around the first cool-ish evening of the month, the city collectively decides: yes, we are dressing up now, and no, we will not be stopping until November. Costumes spill into the streets, characters appear at bars on random Tuesdays, and nobody asks, “Why are you dressed like that?”—because the answer is always obvious. It’s October.

New Orleans cemeteries are some of the most photographed, talked-about, and misunderstood places in the city—especially during spooky season. They’re beautiful. They’re atmospheric. They’re full of stories. But they are also sacred spaces, still actively used by families and communities today.

In a lot of places, death is kept quiet—hidden behind closed doors and hushed voices. In New Orleans, death is acknowledged out loud. It’s honored in public. It’s carried through the streets with music. It’s remembered with candles, flowers, prayer, and stories that refuse to fade. That doesn’t mean New Orleans is morbid. It means the city is honest: life is precious, people are unforgettable, and memory deserves a little ceremony.

New Orleans doesn’t just tell spooky stories—it lives in a place where history, ritual, and imagination constantly overlap. Here, candles aren’t just décor. Cemeteries aren’t just quiet. And the line between “legend” and “lived experience” can feel deliciously thin. To understand why New Orleans is such perfect ground for ghost lore—and why zombies feel strangely at home here—it helps to look at a few spiritual and cultural currents that have shaped the city for centuries.

In most places, Halloween is a single night: carved pumpkins, a few costumes, maybe a party, and then it’s over. In New Orleans? Halloween is a season—a full-bodied, costume-forward, street-theater celebration that feels less like a holiday and more like a mini-Carnival. It didn’t happen by accident. Halloween became New Orleans’ “second Carnival season” because the city was already built for it.

Plenty of cities celebrate Halloween. New Orleans lives it. Here, October doesn’t feel like a single spooky night—it feels like a full-blown season of costuming, storytelling, ritual, and revelry. While other places save the theatrics for October 31, New Orleans has been practicing the art of becoming someone else for centuries Halloween just happens to be our favorite excuse.

In New Orleans, putting on a mask is never just about hiding your face. It’s about becoming something else. It’s permission. It’s play. It’s tradition. From the satin-draped mystery of Mardi Gras to the deliciously unhinged spectacle of spooky season, the Crescent City has always had a love affair with dressing up—and dressing out. Here, costumes aren’t “costumes.” They’re identities… preferably with sequins, lashes, and a little fog machine energy.