I flew 20 hours to find America's scariest Halloween, and this place delivered

A horned man dripping in devil makeup pokes his tongue out, screaming in my direction. He's waving frantically, trying to catch my attention, praying I choose him. Believe it or not, the prize he craves so desperately is an empty plastic cup. But he'd settle for a sachet of jambalaya spices, or even a colourful bead necklace. "Here!" he bellows. "Here, please!" But he's drowned out by hundreds of others, all screaming the same pleas into the humid night air.

This is Halloween in New Orleans, the spookiest city in the world. The French Quarter teems with costumed crowds as massive floats roll by, trailing a chaotic rain of trinkets tossed by masked figures with hit-or-miss accuracy. It's exhilarating to be among the crowd as the parade rolls by, but actually riding on a float, as I am, is an experience like no other. Anyone over 18 can apply to be a riding member on the official Krewe of BOO! website, if they're willing to pay the price. A membership costs about $US625 ($960) and participants are required to buy at least $US400 worth of throws. And be warned, the other riders set a high bar for costumes, so come dressed to the nines in horror get-up.

As a buttoned-down reporter from regional Australia, I often surprise people when they discover I'm a fan of all things horror. Then they regret asking a follow-up question when I launch into an explanation of how horror movies aren't that scary when you appreciate the craft of practical effects, how actually some of them are hilarious and progressive and that they should definitely watch the early movies of Clive Barker, Sam Raimi and Wes Craven.. On the night of the parade, I smear black paint into the hollows of my eyes and cheeks, and draw a crucifix on my forehead like the psychotic killer from a low-budget schlockfest, House of 1000 Corpses. The effect is instant, I come alive.

I've flown more than 20 hours to be here, looking for something scarier than the clean thrills of Australia's Halloween. I'm searching for a truly unsettling experience. I want to see the real Louisiana, the southern Gothic capital of decaying plantations, eerie swamps and creeping vines. I'm looking for the true magic that lies beyond the mass-produced talismans.

Louisiana delivers a masterclass in dark tourism for those seeking a fright. The tourism subculture shines a light on sites of death, tragedy and suffering. In New Orleans, these sites are serious money-makers. A visitor to the city could spend a week exploring ornate cemeteries (including one where actor Nicolas Cage has prematurely built a tomb), haunted buildings and murder sites; there's even a Museum of Death with letters from serial killers and artefacts worshipped by dark fandom communities.

The Big Easy is famous for its parade culture, hosting about 130 a year. Aside from Mardi Gras, the Halloween parade is one of the city's favourite celebrations. Here, you can be exactly the kind of freak you want to be. That's never more true than during the spooky season. "People in New Orleans love to celebrate life, to dress up as someone else for a couple of hours and put on a show," Louisiana local and senior vice president for New Orleans and Company Kelly Schulz tells me.

"Tourism is big business for the city, but it's also what we love to do. Halloween is for the visitors as well as the locals." With a constant stream of visitors into the Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport, it's not hard to see how 85,000 jobs in the city are supported by the tourism industry.

I generally admire the spooky people of New Orleans. They stare you straight in your eyes like they know all your secrets, but they're cool with them. To be honest, I had expected to be disappointed by their public Halloween celebrations. I expected the locals to have their own exclusive parties while the tourists duked it out in the streets. I'm sure there are mind-bending ragers happening behind-the-scenes, but almost everyone I approached was from the city. Locals turn out in force to the parade in the French Quarter, bumping and grinding among the fascinated visitors.

Louisiana, in south-east US, has a culture borne from a convergence of Native American, African, Afro-Caribbean, Acadian, French, Spanish and English influences. Centuries of conflict and rapid cultural evolution have created an intoxicating brand of food, music, architecture and traditions. The resilient people of New Orleans, and Louisiana more broadly, aren't afraid of much. After questioning a few, it seems the spooky stories of their childhoods prepared them to live among a culture of witchcraft, the walking dead and whispers of real-life vampires.

Let me clarify something: I want to be scared, but I don't want to be at risk. That's why I love horror houses. They're intense experiences where you knowingly drop yourself in the middle of a horror movie with jumpscares around every corner. So I walk through the doors of The Mortuary to see if I can get my kicks. It's a Halloween attraction where seasonal employees dress up as gnarled creatures, laying in wait to lurch out of their hiding spot as thrillseekers hurry past. A line of giddy teenagers snakes around the side of the 150-year-old mansion. That's promising. The building served as a mortuary for more than 20,000 funerals. The creators are keen to remind visitors that "the blood and bodily fluids of the dead swirled into a drain in the embalming room deep in the basement catacombs".

Tensions are high as nervous visitors file into the house. It's one of those rare occasions where it seems like it's socially ok to touch a stranger. A bad fright is a bonding experience, and you can't be mad at someone for bumping into you if they're just trying to outrun the Leatherface impersonator. There is one blessed rule that puts your mind at rest: the actors won't touch you as long as you don't touch them. The experience is a bit like riding a rollercoaster, a blurred, adrenaline-fuelled whirlwind of screams and belly laughs.

I've got the taste for it now, and I'm ready to take it up a notch. I've heard stories about a terrifying haunted house in Baton Rouge, a city just up the Mississippi River from New Orleans. The 13th Gate is a former sporting supply store in an industrial part of town, but don't let that give you a false sense of confidence, this is the pet project of film set designers and special effects wizards. You lose all sense of space and time inside the 13th Gate, rolling from one terrifying world to another. It's spine-chilling, but it's a masterpiece.

Walking into the eerie attraction, an elevator arrives and a skittering figure steps out; she has decaying skin and bulging features, wearing a tattered bellhop costume. She beckons me inside, and I oblige, clinging to the wall. The door closes and we rush downwards. Seconds later, the faint light flickers off and I shriek, I'm stuck in a pitch-black box with this creeper. With adrenaline rising, I try to make out the dark figure in the elevator with me, but just as it stops, I realise I'm not peering at the woman I entered with. A light flicks on and I'm staring at the face of a nightmarish ghoul.

I think the true genius of the 13th Gate is the creator's skill for misdirection: just as you gird yourself to walk past the still figure in a dark corner of the room, the real fiend is waiting behind you.

A Louisiana Halloween is not all horror and quick thrills. In small town St Francisville, the spooky season is a much more civilised affair. The exquisite historic town of about 1500 people does Halloween like you see it in the movies, with carved pumpkins decorating antebellum architecture. The town even closes roads so young trick-or-treaters can safely skip from home to home collecting Moonpies and Twizzlers.

Even in the countryside there's no escaping Louisiana's ghostly shadow. The Myrtles, a former plantation and makeshift civil war hospital, is five minutes north of St Francisville. Despite claims it's the US's most haunted house, it's popular for overnight stays for about $US300. The main house is definitely inhabited by ghosts, the staff say. Countless soldiers and slaves died here. A tour guide points out a collection of stolen bling - there's one ghost that likes to steal earrings. But how about the cottages by the lake? Oh, they're haunted, too. Stay out of the woods.

My new theory is that true Louisiana magic is out there, but it won't come to you as an apparition, zombie or vampire. Its magic is revealed in the stolen moments, in the mad dash along Frenchmen Street, a frozen cocktail in hand, laughing as strangers become friends and friends become fellow adventurers.

The writer was a guest of Louisiana Office of Tourism and New Orleans & Company