The email body was blank but there were photo attachments:
Photos 1-5: Scanned copies of an aged journal. It is written in a messy, frantic script.
Photo 6: polaroid of sunset on unlabeled southern interstate.
Photo 7: polaroid of sugarcane field against a cloudy blue sky.
Photo 8: polaroid of a cemetery, the graves in above ground crypts and mausoleums, lined up like little houses for the dead.
Photo 9: older, aged polaroid of a dark-skinned woman in scrubs reading a book with a grin.
Photo 10: Worn down sign with faded paint that reads "Welcome to Doucet"
I transcribed the journal so it is easier to read. I apologize for any mistakes. At this point, I've been piecing together Alice's story day and night for a few weeks. I hope someone out there is as interested in her story as I am.
The Archivist.
************
3/13/06 20:15.
I'm writing this down because I'm not sure what is happening or what is real. There is a likely chance that this is a drug-fueled psychosis. Or that I hit my head really hard. Or that I'm dead. I'm still not sure which.
So, I will try to compile the facts as I see them and maybe that will help jog my memory and figure this out.
What is the last thing I remember before waking up today? Tamika. She was in her pink scrubs, leaning down to kiss me goodbye and goodnight before leaving for a graveyard shift at the hospital.
That doesn't explain how I woke up. Or where I woke up. Or why I'm even here.
I could tell my head hurt before I opened my eyes. It felt like a hangover, but I've been sober for 8 years. I was bent over something, like I fell asleep at my writing desk again. There was an annoying sound, a clicking sound. Over and over and over. Not like a clock. Something familiar. I went to move and heard another sound and froze before I realized the sound was coming from me.
When my eyes finally opened, there was a blurry image in front of me. A bunch of lines and numbers. They swam in my vision before becoming one. A car dashboard. The hazards were blinking on and off. My hands were gripping the steering wheel as my head slowly raised from where I had struck it, seeing a drop of blood fall. I touched the top of my scalp and my fingers came away red.
What the fuck is happening??
The pain was grounding as I tried to get my bearings. I looked to the passenger seat, terrified I'd see Tamika looking worse than how I felt - but the seat was empty. My purse was on the floor board and I slowly reached for it, my body screaming with each movement. Hoping something would jog my memory of what I was doing, I opened it. My heart sank as I pulled out a bottle of Xanax with my name on it, weed and pipe, and mini bottles of alcohol. 8 years, down the fucking drain and for what? I felt myself start to tear up but tried to take deep breaths.
Okay. Driving under the influence. Crashing under the influence. That's not ideal, but it's some sort of explanation. But where was I?
Outside my window was dark, except for the orange of my hazards occasionally illuminating the surrounding area. I was on the shoulder of some road in the middle of nowhere. Trees surrounded me on either side. I fumbled the dash for the headlights and flipped them on to see what I hit.
No. It didn't make sense. I still don't understand it as I'm writing it down. I grabbed my polaroid camera and stumbled out of the car and took a picture. It spit out the print with a whirring sound and I sat back in the driver's seat and waited with baited breath as it developed. I don't know why I thought it would show me anything different. Illuminated by the cabin light was a photo of the dilapidated sign I crashed into- welcoming me to the small southern town of Doucet, Louisiana.
Tamika and I had ran away from here, 12 years ago. We swore we would never come back. As if the universe heard our oath, it washed the town away in some explosion. I never cared to get all of the details.
I needed help, that much was certain. Rummaging through my bag, eventually my hand found a few more things: my emergency flashlight, my Nokia, and my journal. I checked my journal only to find every page that had writing on it had been torn out. The Nokia alerted me that it had no signal, not surprising given the area. Flashlight in hand, I decided to walk - the opposite direction of the town- until I found service, assistance, or civilization. Feeling a little stronger after having a plan, I set out.
I don't know how far I walked, but eventually I saw lights in the distance. Someone was pulled over on the side of the road. I breathed a sigh of relief and my pace increased to a jog. I hoped they'd be able to help. I wouldn't tell them about the drugs of course. I'd tell them I was going to see a family member who still lived there and almost hit a deer. That's pretty believable.
As I got closer I froze. It was my car, crashed against the welcome sign with the hazards still blinking. How did…
I turned around again, facing the opposite direction, my breathing labored. It must be the drugs or the possible concussion. I obviously hadn't moved. I tried again, this time checking over my shoulder first, to make sure the car was starting to fade in the distance. As soon as it was out of sight, I sighed, feeling a little bit better. But the horror returned when I faced forward and saw I was walking towards the car again.
I tried again. And again. And again.
I don't know how many times I tried, but the next time I turned my head towards the car I screamed and dropped to my knees. What the fuck is happening? Why can't I leave or find help? Am I dead? I checked for a pulse and felt one - my heart working overtime with panic. My head bled so I'm real and feel pain. I just can't turn away from this town.
Was this town haunting me? Or am I haunting it?
My cellphone sprang to life in my hand, the sound cutting the silence. I saw the name and answered, my voice desperate.
"Tam?? Hello??"
There was crackling static. Her voice cut through. "Al…ice?...Where are…Doucet…hel…" The line went dead. My heart was a sledgehammer against my ribcage as I desperately tried her back with no luck --whatever signal she used to get that message out was gone.
My decision had been made for me. Doucet and her swamp of memories beckoned me. Who was I to make her wait?
I managed to do some research last night into the town of Doucet and its history. For ease, I am going to copy and paste the article from Wikipedia. I've removed all of the blue links and citations - if interested please see the official Wikipedia page.
I'm curious if Alice is one of the remaining residents, maybe going senile in her old age. Or...maybe it's hoax. I'm still not sure, but after confirming the SilverStar Munition story, I'm beginning to wonder if she is telling the truth about everything.
I will continue to research the town. I also looked for any social media connected to Alice LeBlanc but was unable to find anything. I'm currently editing another email from her and hope to have it uploaded soon. I will warn you now, her emails can be pretty disturbing.
Please see the article below.
With wonder,
The Archivist.
#WhathappenedtoAlice
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia.
Doucet was a small city and near-ghost town in Robichaux Parish. It is located around 28 miles from the Gulf of Mexico and is part of a series of bayous and swampland. Its population declined from 5,000 to just ten residents after the SilverStar Munition Explosion of 1995 leveled and contaminated most of Main Street District. Doucet is the least populated municipality in the state of Louisiana.
All real estate in Doucet was claimed under eminent domain in 2002 and condemned by the State of Louisiana. State and local officials reached an agreement with the ten remaining residents in 2012, allowing them to remain in Doucet until their deaths, after which the rights to their real estate will be taken through eminent domain. As of 2026, only three residents remain.
Early History
Originally a settlement for the Atakapa, an Indigenous people of the Southeastern Woodlands, Doucet was called Lat Kakau for the the nearby Calcasieu Delta. Lat meaning "three" and Kakau meaning "water". They spoke the Atakapa language and historically lived along the Gulf of Mexico in what is now Texas and Louisiana.
The Atakapa called themselves the Ishak, which translates as "the People".
After 1762, and Louisiana's transfer to Spain after the French defeat in the Seven Years' War, little was written about the people. Due to high rate of deaths from epidemics spread from settlers, the Atakapa ceased to function as a tribe. The survivors are believed to have joined the Caddo, Koasati, and other neighboring tribes.
Doucet
Named for Major Germain Doucet dit La Verdure, a French military officer who arrived in Port-Royal (Arcadia) around 1632, Doucet was established in 1836 by Charles Doucet. During the Civil War, Confederate Commerce Raiders used the bayous and swampland to hide from the Union fleet. The area served as a supply depot and hideout, as no Union warship could make the trek in such shallow waters.
During the Great Depression, one of the two Doucet banks failed and a fire destroyed a major section of the downtown area in 1930.
On May 12, 1934, a hurricane ripped through Doucet, destroying 20% of the homes.
Bloody Robichaux
"Bloody Robichaux" refers to Robichaux Parish, Louisiana, which earned a reputation for extreme racial violence during the Reconstruction and Jim Crow eras of Post-Antebellum Louisiana, most likely due to having one of the highest numbers of lynchings in the United States. This legacy persists through modern racial disparities in the conviction and execution rate and a history of celebrating the fallen Confederacy in the surrounding areas.
SilverStar Munition Incident
Main article: Silver Star Munition Explosion
On April 28, 1988, an explosion of the SilverStar Munitions site caused a small evacuation in a 3 mile radius. No injuries or fatalities were reported.
In September of 1995, a large explosion of around 25 million pounds of M6 propellant at the site rocked the community of Doucet. The explosion leveled most of Main Street district and contaminated the town of Doucet. The explosion itself was rumored to have been felt as far as 20 miles away, however there is no evidence suggesting any damage to the neighboring townships. An estimated 157 people were killed in the initial explosion, and around 500 more were injured.
Initial investigations concluded the explosion was caused by a fire that broke out in the underground bunkers which improperly stored mass quantities of M6 propellant.
In 1998, the State of Louisiana's Department of Environmental Quality and the Army (with which SilverStar Munitions was contracted) agreed to dispose of the explosive M6 propellant by open burn. This decision, while cost effective, ultimately solidified Doucet's downfall. Contamination from the initial explosion and open burns made the nearby town unlivable. By 2004, the town was evacuated by the State of Louisiana and condemned.
Doucet was largely abandoned, and, as of 2026, only three residents remain. Upon their deaths, the property will pass on to the State.
My name is Alice LeBlanc. The date is March 26, 2006. 2145. I think.
Is anyone there? Can anyone read this? This computer looks to be a decade old, stained yellow from secondhand smoke. I have no idea if it connects to the Internet. The computer responds as if it is, but there is a NO INTERNET CONNECTION message. So, if you are reading this, hello. Welcome to my nightmare.
I don't know if I even want anyone to read this. I'm fucking terrified. I shouldn't have come back. I shouldn't have taken those pills. I should have just taken Red's offer to crash on her couch. I shouldn't have rented a car. I shouldn't have come back.
I will do my best to get this all down before I forget. I'm scared of forgetting. I already did once - I remembered, eventually, and the anxiety that forgetting spawned made me look for any way to record my experiences. Napkins, notebooks, you name it. I found this computer in the library. Again, surprised it has power. The light from the monitor is the only light in the room. The library seems safe for now. It will be my base camp until I'm able to navigate through the dense fog and find my way home.
I really, really don't know what's going on. The fog is ever-present. There is no bird song. No sounds of bugs or frogs or any of the critters that were the background orchestra to my childhood. I don't even know how to explain the things I've seen. The monsters. The fog. And.... shit. I'm starting to forget.
Who...am I again?
Right. My name is Alice LeBlanc. The date is....March 26, 2006. I think.
I saw Tamika. She was really here. Her locs were pulled back into that cute bun she always does. She smiled at me and beckoned me over with her finger. I followed but... she disappeared into the fog. How is she here? How can she be here? Why would she come back to this awful place? I only came back because she... because she...
I don't remember. I do remember the monsters. I remember my childhood. But I can't remember what happened between us. And I'm starting to forget who I am, almost as if I'm fading into the fog myself.
It's this goddamn town. Doucet, Louisiana. Located in the swampy region of Robichaux Parish, Doucet was where you went to die. Between the hurricanes and flooding and swamp gas emission, it was not a place to raise a family or start over. It was the place where you gave up and put down roots deeper than the Cypress trees.
The town was deeply religious at one point. So religious that when the SilverStar munition plant exploded, they thought it was the end times. I was across the country, sipping a cocktail at a dive bar when I saw my tiny hometown on the TV. Most of the town was forced to relocate. Something about toxic fumes. A few hermits remained.
My father being one of them.
Mom died during the explosion. That was hard. She was the only family member I kept in touch with after I...no I do not want to remember that, thank you very much. A shelf on the wall fell, striking her in the head. Dad got a payout from the class action eventually, though I imagine he already spent it on alcohol. I doubt he was able to stay on the wagon once she was gone. Who am I to judge? I have no idea if I'm even sober right now.
Am I sober? Or am I just fucked up again? Is that why I keep forgetting? Is that why I'm stuck and can't find my way out of town? What were those...things I saw? Were they real? Am...I real?
I'm rambling again.
I'm still in Doucet. No... I'm in the Dark World. My name is Alice LeBlanc. And I cannot warn you enough: do not look for me.
Hi all. Have you ever received an email late? What about 20 years late?
The above message is just one of many I've received over the last few months. I thought it was a prank at first. The messages sometimes are corrupted and illegible. They are also never sent in the correct order. I tried emailing back but it would tell me the email address is no longer available or incorrect. Still, I receive them. She is an eccentric woman; sometimes she rambles on about her past, other times worries desperately about her future.
Whether suffering through a psychotic break or actually being transported to a Dark World (as she calls it), I'm trying to piece together her story as best as I can - including my own research into Robichaux Parish and the swampy ghost town of Doucet (prounounced "Doo-say"). This message felt like the perfect introduction into the Alice LeBlanc I have come to know and admire through her emails. I feel like I've come to understand her. Or maybe she understands me.
I hope you will suspend your disbelief, as I have. I'm posting her story here, for ease. I'm hoping to find some way to contact her, to let her know that someone is listening and attempting to tell the world.
I hope you will join me in asking: #WhatHappenedToAlice? #WhatIsGoingOnInDucet?
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