In the serene, snow-capped peaks of the Swiss Alps, the ski resort town of Crans-Montana is known for its luxury chalets, pristine slopes, and vibrant après-ski scene. But on the night of December 31, 2025, as the world ushered in 2026 with cheers and fireworks, a night of celebration turned into one of unimaginable horror at Le Constellation bar. What began as a festive gathering of young revelers ended in a blaze that claimed dozens of lives, leaving families shattered and a community in mourning. The fire, which erupted in the early hours of January 1, exposed the fragility of joy in the face of sudden disaster, with survivors recounting scenes of chaos, heroism, and heartbreaking loss.

The bar, a popular basement nightclub tucked into the heart of the resort, was packed that evening. With a capacity of around 300 inside and an additional terrace, it drew a youthful crowd—many teenagers as young as 16, the legal drinking age in Switzerland. The atmosphere was electric: live DJs spun pop hits, groups played billiards, and friends danced under dim lights. As midnight struck, champagne flowed, and sparklers—those innocuous “birthday candles” often used for celebrations—were lit atop bottles. It was a ritual meant to sparkle with promise, but instead, it ignited a catastrophe.

According to accounts pieced together from videos and witness statements, the fire started innocently enough. Bar staff carried trays of champagne bottles adorned with flaming sparklers, weaving through the throng of dancers. One such bottle was held too close to the ceiling, where soundproofing foam—designed to muffle the thumping music—hung loosely. In seconds, sparks caught the foam, and a small blaze flickered to life. At first, it seemed manageable; young patrons even pulled off their T-shirts, swinging them wildly in an attempt to beat back the flames. Laughter mixed with confusion as some continued filming on their phones, unaware of the peril unfolding above them.

But the fire spread with terrifying speed. The foam, highly combustible, fueled a rapid escalation. Hot gases built up in the enclosed basement, leading to a phenomenon known as flashover—a violent ignition where nearly everything in the room bursts into flame simultaneously. Temperatures soared to over 1,000 degrees Fahrenheit, turning the dance floor into an inferno. Wooden elements, decorations, seats, and plastics all contributed to the blaze, creating thick, toxic smoke that choked the air. An explosion followed, not from any bomb but from the intense pressure of the fire itself, shattering the illusion of safety.

Panic ensued. The basement had only one main exit—a narrow staircase leading to a veranda and then outside—though an emergency exit existed but went unnoticed in the smoke-filled darkness. Revelers surged toward the stairs, bodies pressing together in a desperate crush. Screams pierced the night as people fainted from lack of oxygen, their skin blistering from the heat. Witnesses outside described seeing patrons emerge “completely disfigured,” with hair singed off, skin peeling, and faces etched in terror. One survivor, a 20-year-old named Noa Bersier, later recalled feeling a wave of heat pulse through him, as if he were on fire from within. “I saw my hands decomposing,” he said, his voice trembling in interviews. He escaped with burns covering his head, hands, back, and leg, but considered himself lucky compared to those left behind.

Inside, the scene was even more harrowing. Bodies piled up near the exit, victims trapped in the stampede. Some were found later, investigators noted, in positions that suggested they had clung to one another in their final moments—friends or strangers holding on amid the suffocating smoke and flames. The basement, once alive with music and laughter, became a tomb for many. The entire ordeal unfolded rapidly, but footage from inside captured the escalation: from the initial spark to full engulfment, the transformation was swift and merciless. Investigators highlighted certain timestamps in the videos as particularly telling, where the shift from confusion to sheer desperation became evident, underscoring how quickly hope evaporated.

The toll was staggering. At least 40 people perished, most in the basement where the fire originated. Over 115 others were injured, suffering severe burns, smoke inhalation, and trauma. Among the victims were locals, tourists from France, Italy, Belgium, Poland, Portugal, Luxembourg, and even an Australian. Many were young: a 17-year-old Italian golfer named Emanuele Galeppini from Genoa, a 16-year-old boy named Arthur whose mother searched desperately for him for over 30 hours, and 19-year-old Tahirys Dos Santos, a promising soccer trainee for FC Metz, who was airlifted to Germany with burns covering 30% of his body. Hospitals across Switzerland, France, Italy, and Germany were overwhelmed, with burn units filling quickly and air ambulances ferrying the wounded.

Survivors’ stories paint a vivid picture of survival against the odds. Seventeen-year-old Nestor Fischer had stepped out before midnight but returned to the chaos. He described hearing screams and seeing smoke billow out, then joining others to force open a stuck glass door using stools and sheer force. With phone flashlights cutting through the darkness, they guided trapped patrons to safety. “I helped people who were completely burned,” he recounted, recognizing a friend whose skin was melting off, screaming in agony. Another teen, 16-year-old Manfredi Marcucci, fled with 30-40% burns; his father noted he was alive but far from well, with a friend still missing. Two French women, Emma and Albane, escaped early, crediting their quick exit to spotting the ceiling ignite moments after the sparklers were lit. An 18-year-old bystander, Alexis Laguerre, watched in horror as people smashed windows with chairs, scrambling through flames like scenes from a nightmare.

The bar’s owners, a French couple, now face a criminal investigation for negligence, arson by omission, and causing bodily harm. Prosecutors are scrutinizing everything: the foam’s compliance with fire safety standards, the bar’s capacity limits, the presence and accessibility of fire extinguishers, and whether overcrowding played a role. The venue had passed inspections three times in the past decade, but questions linger about the hanging foam, which had been noted as loose days earlier. Identification of the dead relied on dental records and DNA, a grim process involving over 30 specialists. Swiss authorities, including Valais Canton’s Prosecutor General Beatrice Pilloud, have interviewed survivors and compiled attendee lists to piece together the night. Terrorism was quickly ruled out, with the focus squarely on preventable failures.

In the days following, Crans-Montana transformed from a winter wonderland into a place of profound grief. Swiss President Guy Parmelin declared it one of the nation’s worst tragedies, calling for national mourning. Families launched desperate searches on social media, posting photos of missing loved ones—teenagers in ski gear, smiling faces that belied the horror. A Facebook page collected appeals, with parents like Laetitia Brodard pleading for information about her son Arthur, whose phone rang unanswered.

Community responses were swift and somber. On January 1, hundreds gathered in the freezing night for a vigil overlooking the charred site, now screened off with white plastic sheets. Flowers, candles, soft toys, and handwritten notes formed a makeshift shrine, the air heavy with silence broken only by whispers and sobs. Young men held each other, inconsolable. The next day, a special Mass at St. Christopher’s Church drew survivors, firefighters, and families. Tears flowed freely; some fainted from emotion. A silent procession followed, marching through the streets to the bar’s location, honoring the lost with quiet dignity. Firefighters in uniform stood arm in arm, their commander David Vocat calling them a “giant family” united in sorrow.

Italy’s Foreign Minister Antonio Tajani visited, laying flowers and offering forensic aid, as several Italians remained unaccounted for or injured. Patients were transported to Milan and other cities, with international cooperation highlighting the tragedy’s borderless impact. A larger memorial is planned for January 9, providing a space for collective healing.

This fire echoes past disasters, like the 1980 MGM Grand hotel blaze in Las Vegas or the 2017 Grenfell Tower inferno in London, where flammable materials and poor exits amplified the horror. In Crans-Montana, it serves as a stark reminder of how everyday celebrations can turn deadly when safety lapses occur. The young victims, full of potential, leave behind voids that no investigation can fill. As the Alps’ snow continues to fall, blanketing the resort in white, the scars of that night remain— a testament to lives cut short and the enduring pain of those who survived.

Yet, amid the devastation, acts of heroism shine through. Bouncers like Stefi, who perished while helping others, and ordinary teens who smashed doors to save strangers, embody resilience. The community clings to these stories, much like the victims did in their final moments, finding solace in unity. As Crans-Montana rebuilds, the memory of Le Constellation will linger, urging better safeguards so that future New Year’s Eves ring with joy, not tragedy.