Camp Rougarou: A Pickleball Ghost Story Inspired by CORE Pro 4G

The Midnight Ladder at Camp Rougarou: Pickleball Ghost Story

Note: This is not a paddle review. I haven’t played with the CORE Pro 4G yet – but I entered a Halloween contest hosted by CORE Pickleball in hopes of winning one. If I do, you can expect a full hands-on review right here.

In late October 2025, CORE Pickleball announced the launch of their new paddle with a spooky little twist – a Reddit ghost story contest. Entrants were invited to share their creepiest pickleball tale or “haunted court” vision for a chance to win one of their new paddles ahead of release. That’s where this story was born.

“CORE Pro 4G enters the market on November 3rd with USAP approval, raw carbon surface, and foam-halo tech.”

CORE Pro 4G Paddle – Public Details & Official Specs

“The CORE Pro 4G pairs a UD T700 carbon surface with a 16 mm foam-halo core and reverse teardrop shape.”

The CORE Pro 4G paddle officially launches on November 3, 2025. While I haven’t played with it, CORE has released enough specs to give players a clear sense of its intended performance tier. This is a paddle aimed squarely at tournament-level play.

• Unidirectional T700 Carbon Fiber Surface
• Honeycomb core with high-density foam halo
• Low-density foam neck braces
• Full mid-density foam perimeter
• Gen 4 reverse teardrop shape
• MSRP: $199
• USAP certified for tournament play

Official USAP Paddle Approval Data

“USA Pickleball approved the CORE Pro 4G on September 23, 2025.”

These details are pulled directly from the USA Pickleball approval list.

Why This Paddle Inspired a Ghost Story

“A paddle that remembers every shot is just a step away from a court that remembers you.”

When I read about the Pro 4G’s perimeter foam, raw surface, and reverse teardrop shape, it sparked a question: what if a paddle wasn’t just engineered to remember your touch – what if it remembered you? That idea grew into the story you’re about to read. A place where fog curls around the chain-link fence, where ladder play has a price, and where the court chooses who stays.

Like a lot of players, I’ve felt those eerie late-night vibes when the lights hum, the air goes still, and every pop echoes just a little too long. That’s the atmosphere that shaped this story.

The Midnight Ladder at Camp Rougarou (Ghost Story)

“Some courts remember more than they should.”

I thought it was a joke. Everyone knows pickleball players spin ghost stories the way fishermen brag about the one that got away – half truth, half legend, all bait.

But the moment I turned down that narrow gravel road and saw the fog crawling through the chain-link fences like the cold smoke off a chunk of dry ice, something changed.

It didn’t move like normal fog – it slid low and slow, curling around the posts and puddles, as if it had been waiting. The air got quiet in that unnerving way you only feel in places that remember more than they should.

Even when I stepped out of the truck, I couldn’t tell if the mist was drifting in from the bayou or seeping out of the ground itself. It hovered just above my ankles – never rising, never clearing – like it wanted to stake its claim before I did.

The courts sat in a shallow bowl of cracked asphalt, hemmed by cypress knees and black water. Spanish moss hung like old lace from the branches, and bullfrogs stitched the edges of the silence with a slow metronome.

A single bank of lights hummed overhead, throwing pale halos that didn’t quite reach the corners. The fog didn’t retreat from the light; it gathered along the baselines, tracing the rectangles the way you trace a scar.

A hand-painted sign leaned sideways on rebar: Camp Rougarou. Someone had drawn a wolf’s head in the curve of the “R,” teeth just a little too long. Below it, a smaller plank read: WELCOME, CHECK IN AT THE BAIT SHOP.

But the building was no bait shop. Just a low cinderblock office with a soda machine out front, half the buttons missing.

Inside, the air smelled like cedar, bug spray, and the bayou creeping in. A crooked bulletin board. A ledger with tight looped names. And a row of paddles laid out on velvet like surgical instruments.

A man with silver hair and a quiet posture looked up from the ledger. His eyes were the color of the bayou before a storm.

“Welcome to Camp Rougarou,” he said. “I’m Coach Sid. We start at dusk.”

He slid a wristband across the counter. Without asking, he picked up a paddle and wrapped the grip with quick, practiced movements – like someone who’d done it a thousand times. Then he handed it to me.

T700 unidirectional carbon surface – cool against my palm as I ran my fingers across the face. A honeycomb core wrapped in a high-density foam halo. Low-density neck braces for soft touch, full perimeter foam for control, and that Gen 4 reverse teardrop shape built for power. Light as a whisper, it sat in my hand like a decision already made.

“It glows,” I said.

“It remembers,” Sid replied.

There were twenty-four of us. Six courts.

Most of the faces were strangers – silhouettes in the fog. But nine of them I recognized. That was the part that unsettled me most.

The tapestry you find at every complex from here to Lafayette:

• Uncle Riz – the power guy, bruised forearm and proud of it.
• Diana – quiet as a surgeon, carving resets through the chaos like steady hands in an OR.
• Kristen – visor that said Bless Your Heart, lobbing moonballs like lullabies.
• Janel – social butterfly, kind smile, chaotic paddle.
• Jeff & Krystal – matching shoes and whispered strategy.
• Fred – gear tinkerer with calipers and Dremel.
• Ethan – a converted basketball player who lives for shake-and-bakes and crashes the kitchen like it owes him rent.
• Amina – rules lawyer, laminated regs in her bag.

The others stood farther back, fog clinging to their ankles, faces blurred by the lights. I didn’t know them. But the court did.

Warmups felt… off.

The carbon made the ball sing, but the echo died quickly, swallowed by the bowl of land and the breathing of the water.

Every third bounce made the fog ripple like something listening. The paddle hummed faintly at each clean strike – the foam halo almost pulsing with it, like a heartbeat.

When darkness reached up from the ground and the lights buzzed alive, Sid clapped once.

“Ladder,” he said.

“Round robin?” Janel asked.

“Ladder,” Sid repeated. “Midnight Ladder at Rougarou. Winners climb. Losers… stay.”

For the first rounds, the matches were scattered across the six courts. Laughter, paddle pops, the scuff of shoes on gritty surface – all the ordinary sounds of a camp night. But beneath it, the fog whispered.

Round one: Diana and I against Jeff and Krystal. Her resets were clean. The paddle breathed with each strike, catching the light and holding it just a moment too long. We won 11–4 and advanced.

“Winners split,” Sid said.

Round two: Diana paired with Fred. I drew Kristen. Tight game. 11–9. I edged it out.

Diana gave me a look that wasn’t anger. It was closer to loss.

Round after round blurred together. Bell chime. Split. Climb.

I started to notice the others disappearing. Not off the courts – into the fog.

By the time I reached the far end, five courts were quiet. The sixth was waiting.

Court Six.

Nobody started here. Everyone whispered about it. It slumped down toward the bayou, the fence sagging like old bones. Gator heads floated low in the shallows, eyes catching the light like they’d been watching longer than any coach ever had.

And somehow, when I stepped onto Court Six…

Diana was beside me again.

Not across the net. Beside me.

“Thought winners split,” I whispered. “We did,” she said. Her eyes didn’t move. “But the court… it doesn’t let anyone go alone.”

The fog slid over the kitchen line like silk pulled tight.

I knew I should’ve left. My brain was screaming it. But seeing Court Six that close… it did something to me.

It wasn’t pride or fear. It was that electric, dangerous thrill every player knows – when you’re one game away from proving something. Even if the night felt wrong, even if the fog was breathing, walking away felt worse than losing.

I didn’t want to win. I needed to.

Final match.

Ethan and Uncle Riz across from us. The air clung to the lights like wet fabric.

The rally started normal. Dinks. Angles. Patience.

But the fog crept higher with every point. The paddle’s foam halo warmed, like it was feeding on the precision. Each perfect drop felt less like my shot and more like the paddle deciding for me.

10–10. Deuce.

A drive from Ethan clipped the tape. Diana reset it clean. The halo flared. 11–10.

One more rally – furious hands at the kitchen line. Uncle Riz smashed. I blocked. The ball died soft on the line.

12–10.

The bell rang low – iron and final. Diana’s paddle flared bright, and mine pulsed with it. The fog bent toward us like a bow.

Winners climb. Losers stay.

Sid’s eyes softened – not kind, but knowing. “Well played,” he said, like he’d said it a hundred times before.

The fog didn’t fight us. It opened. Behind us, Uncle Riz’s shadow stilled. Ethan’s paddle hung mid-swing. Kristen’s moonballs hung in a loop that would never break. The strangers blurred out of focus entirely. They weren’t coming. The court had already decided.

Beware: The fog remembers every game… and it always wants one more. The winners leave. The losers play one more game. Forever.

The Fog Remembers – Behind the Fiction

“This story blends real tournament tension with Cajun Gothic lore.”

Late-night ladder nights have a way of warping time. Players vanish into the fog between matches. Bells echo through empty complexes. This story turns that shared experience into something more – a haunted court where ladder play decides more than brackets.

“When the lights hum and the fog sinks low, it’s easy to believe the court’s keeping score long after we leave.”

Core Pro 4G FAQ

And no – this pickleball ghost story isn’t real. But the CORE Pro 4G is. If my entry wins, you’ll see a real review here soon enough.

Updated November 3, 2025: The Core Pro 4G is now available for pre-order.