Perhaps there is no better way to understand the nature of the magical city of New Orleans than by examining its nickname: The Big Easy. Because, upon closer observation, it is not a particularly big city by any metric, and it's famously hard to navigate, even as a neurotic, disembodied spirit. 

And it is not because renaming it "The Small Hard" would summon images best left for a late-night Google search that would best suit a non-PG 13 story like this one — a certain human company named "Microsoft" managed to pull it off without so much of a giggle — but because messing with people's heads is New Orleans's greatest pastime. 

Built on the back of hustling casinos, the French, pirates, corsairs, the occasional mobster, the French(Canadian-flavored), and filled with pick-pocketers, ne'er-do-wells, and other horribly hyphenated ruffians, it is considered one of the most violent cities in America. 

We at "Playing With Matches" recommend you keep at least three eyes on your fanny pack as you make your way through the beautiful sights of the city. If you can manage that, at least. 

One of the biggest scams the people of New Orleans play on visitors is pretending they have even the slightest semblance of direction and spatial awareness, as they seem to arbitrarily decide where cardinal points should be, and we end up with things like the sun rising each morning on the West side of the city. 

Theoretically — and we say this in the loosest terms — the city takes its geographical cues from the Mississippi River, which runs through the middle of the city, dividing the whole thing in two: the East bank, and the West bank. 

The problem is that the Mississippi river snakes through town like a toddler snorting sugar with the same gusto as a Wall Street executive, as such, things like up and down, left and right get arbitrarily decided depending on where you're standing. At some parts, the East bank dips West, North, And South of the West Bank, while the last one is mostly South of the East Bank, except in the very few parts where it is North of the West Bank, dipping even more West if you can run fast enough. 

It is not uncommon to see tourists on the ground in a fetal position while clutching a compass and a map to their chest while muttering Flat Earth Society propaganda. 

We at "Playing With Matches" highly recommend that, in the event that you visit this glorious and magical city, you kidnap a local and force them to reveal their secrets on how to move around without getting mentally insane. 

Lucky for us, this chaotic geography gets significantly simpler when you strip down any human settlement and focus on those areas inhabited by magical, spiritual, or otherworldly beings. 

"The a-brid-gud vershun, commin' right up!" said the jolly ghost. He spun like a ballerina, if said ballerina was made of farts, and circled an area for Chuck to see. "That the French Quarter. It be free grounds for all us para-normal folk."

"I never go there," said Chuck. "Too many people. It always smells like piss and bad choices."

"True dat, true dat," said the ghost. "But you gotsa know where belon' to who here." 

The ghost moved a few inches left to show everything next to he French Quarter. "Everythin' left of the FQ, Mid-City and Down-Town be the Spell Disstrit. That be where them Witches, Voodoo priest an' other unsavory folk tend to go 'round."

"That's where I work," commented Chuck. "Or worked. Will work again."

"You were one of them film critics, wasn't you? That doesn't sound too much fun."

Chuck glowed a deep pink of shame. "Well, It ain't supposed to be fun. Fact is, movies are the one thing that keep me sane. It helps me deal with the real world."

"How come?" asked the ghost.  

"Well," said Chuck, turning small and pensive, like a brand new penny, and tasting just about the same. "Unlike life, films have structure. Unlike life, you can follow a film's beats, and if you know a bit about stories, you will never be surprised. You got your status quo, your call to adventure, refusal of the call, meeting the mentor — that's where we are, by the way — and so on. Unlike life, films don't surprise me. I can control films, pause them, rewind them, spoil the ending, and that gives me peace."

"But, ain't that the fun thing 'bout life?" said the ghost. "You never know what will happen'!" 

"You and I have different definitions of fun," said Chuck. "But I must admit, it wasn't my dream to be a film critic. I wanted to be a musician. But I could never decide which instrument I wanted to play. Didn't know if I wanted to go 'toot-toot' or 'drum-drum'."

"Well, you gotta lotsa time now!" said the ghost in a happy yellow glow. "You dead now, mister. The world you beignet now. I was a sax player when I died, but my love was food. Now I be a food critic!" 

"I'm sorry to ask, but how can you be a food critic without a mouth?"

"Smellin' people's farts," said the ghost in a deadpanned voice. "Stay away from them pad-thai joint at Bourbon street." 

Chuck decided he wasn't going to ask any more questions he didn't need the answer too.

"Now, everythin' North of the FQ an' south of the lake be them vampires an' werewolves turf. They always fightin' over some pasty-ass girl or another with their Alphas and them Betas and whatever. Bad news. Them werewolves always tryna bite me. That the Bite Disstrit."

With another flourishing spin, the ghost circled the area right of the French Quarter. "Everythin' right of the FQ be the Migrant Disstrit. There you have your fairies, your chupacabra, an', even some small gods. An that it. Any question?"

"Just one," said Chuck. He tried to imitate the ghost's graceful spin, only to look like a drunken seal in low tide. "How 'bout everything South of the French Quarter."

The ghost went pale green in fright, reducing tonal size not bigger than a small, possibly misshapen pony. "We don' go there, or talk about there. Jus' try an' pretend it don't exist no more, ya dig?"

"But-"

"Ya dig?!" repeated the ghost, this time going twice his normal size in a tower of red smoke. 

"Yes!" said Chuck. A cold ran down his spine, one that didn't come from the angry ghosts in front of him. He felt that somehow, somewhere south of the French Quarter, there was a pair of eyes looking at him while tying up a balloon in the shape of a Poodle. 

The ghost bobbed up and down in agreement. "Good. Ya know how to move around. Now, let's get you some help." 

With a flip and a flick, the ghost rocketed towards the Spell District, only to look. behind and see a spec of green cloud cowering mid-flight. 

"How do I go down?!" yelled Chuck as a murder of crows flew by him. They immediately became depressed and plummeted into the Mississippi River to be eaten by some highly contaminated Mermaid. 

A little known fact is that ghosts can imbue their own feelings onto people and animals by going through them. If you ever feel alone and sad for no reason, chances are a depressed ghost just went through you, in which case, congratulations! You are not alone. People feel free to spray some soothing aromas to cheer up your new ghost companion. 

"Just go in front, but down!" yelled back the ghost.

Humans love to label things in the most arbitrary ways, only to uphold them like sacred texts that couldn't be broken by any man or God. Things like up, down, left, right, time, numbers, good, evil, and pigeons are but constructs that are far from real. It's all in the eyes of the beholder. We can argue that flying is falling upwards, or that cockroaches make the best Gushers. 

Chuck was the same as every other human, not understanding that up can be down, or left can be right, or forward can be banana sandwich. Just labels. Still, he had to physically flip his body to face down and move forwards at full speed, going past the ghost, and the river, and going right through a businesswoman, infusing her with a sense of panic that forced her to drop her suitcase run to the Bayou to live a life of solitude. She died at the age of 95 having lived a full life. 

Chuck managed to stop only after going through at least ten ghosts in a row, the only force that could exert some sort of friction on him. This pissed said ghost mad, as Chuck didn't ask their permission to be used in such ways. Don't objectify ghosts--be better than that. 

"Hey!" yelled one of the ghosts, bright red in anger. "Don't be cutting in line now!"

"To the back, to the back!" yelled another rowdy ghost. 

"Hey, wanna get a bottle of Chardonnay and some amuse bouche?" asked a third ghost, this one in a seductive pink.

"Sorry, I'm sorry, I'm very, very sorry," said Chuck. And said it some more. Even after the ghost calmed down. And some more. It was getting annoying. 

It wasn't until our jolly, home-invasion ghost came in chiming that Chuck managed to relax his fluff. 

"Hey, where y'at?!" asked the ghost. Not to Chuck, but to the rest of the ghosts. 

A light show of different shades of blue and pink began to shine as dozens of ghosts started to greet him. 

"Hey, Smokey!" said one of the ghosts. "Where y'at?"

"Smokey?" asked Chuck.

"Jus' a nickname," added Smokey the ghost. "Cuz I done die of lung cancer. We nickname for how we die." He turned around to see the other ghost, going rapidly through their nicknames without skipping a beat. "Hangie, Cutty, Shooty McShootface, Double Murdery, Allergy, Bat-Man, Double-Decker, Methface, Gangree, Infecty, and even Icecream-truck, lemme introduce you fine spirits to Chuck. Chuck, say hi!"

"Hi?" said Chuck. 

"Hey, Chuck, where y'at?" asked a ghost described as Shooty McShootface. "How you die?" 

"He done hung himself," said Smokey, interrupting Chuck before he could say anything. "Maybe. He don't remember nothin'. I think he bonked his head and lost his memories."

"Oh, I'm sorry, hun," said Methface in a sweet, motherly voice. "Well, we already have a Hangie, so Chuck will work for now. Is that why you in line for the seance?"

"In the what now?" asked Chuck. 

And then he realized that every ghost there was gently bobbing up and down in a polite line just outside the New Orleans Convention Center. 

For those not familiar with the concepts of lines, it is a human invention created by Alexander Line, a bank worker that, tired of having to work all day, devised the most inconvenient and annoying way to organize his clients in hope they lose any hope of reaching his booth, and thus leaving before they had any chance to even reach it. 

The coup de grace was to leave at lunch for an hour, but taking ten extra minutes to talk to the manager before opening. The ultimate soul-crushing move. 

Ghost, having nothing better to do, love getting in line to stuff, if only to feel anything crushing them one last time. There is just not much stuff that requires them to get in line. Until that day. 

"Cut the kid some slack, Methface," said Smokey and he got to the back of the line. "He died ha'f an hour ago."

"You poor thing," said Methface. "Lemme get you up to speed. In honor of Zombie Gras, the best Mediums, Psychics and Clairvoyants are holding a seance to help us move on to the other side."

"You lost me at Zombie Gras," said Chuck. "What the hell is a Zombie Gras? And moving on to the other side? You mean heaven and hell. Heaven is real? Sorry, I interrupted, didn't I? I'm sorry. I did it again. Sorry."

"Just let 'im run with it," whispered Smokey. "He gonna tire out."

After a solid five minutes of apologizing and having a small panic attack, Chuck managed to calm down enough to hold a semi-stable form. 

"Lemme take it from here," said Icecream-truck. "Chuck — can I call you Chuck? — Chuck, we are all here because we have unfinished business on Earth. I gotta tell my daughter it wasn't her fault I ran in front of an Icecream truck to get her that Mickey Mouse pop to get her to shut up." 

"I want to tell my wife where I hid my ill-gotten money in the Cayman Islands," said Hangie.

"I wanna see Hamilton before I die," said Gangree. "Can't even get tickets to brag on SnapChat."

"See?" said Methface. "We all have things to do before we pass on, and you too. Maybe all you have to do is getting your memories back!" 

"I didn't have much to live for, ma'am, and I don't think I have much to die for, either," said Chuck in a nonchalant way. "I just wanna know what happened to me. What's happening to me." 

If he were alive, it would've been a cry for help. As a ghost, it was but an offhand comment one would say with the same commitment as a comment about the weather. "What about you, Smokey?" asked Chuck. "What do you have to do before passing on?"

"Well, I reckon I wanna have a name," said Smokey. "My name. Can't move on being a nobody."

At that precise moment, a mob of normal, everyday humans came running out of nowhere with normal, everyday signs chanting normal everyday things. At the front of the mob were two men, one dressed as a Priest, and the other dressed as a Rabbi. 

"What we want?" asked the priest through a speaker-phone.

"To end this abomination!" chanted the crowd. 

"When we want it?" asked the Rabbi.

"Preferably now, if that's okay!" said the crowd. 

"No, no, no, no!" said the Rabbi in quick succession. "We have to be more aggressive than this!" 

"Avishai," said the priest, speaking through the megaphone with a thick Jersey accent, even though he was standing next to him, "we have to be gentle, like Christ." 

"Feh! We have to be fierce, like Yahweh!" said the Rabbi. "We will not be trampled by a bunch of beheyme!" 

"The good book says that blessed are the meek!" said the priest. 

"Don't dare to preach to me about the holy book!" said the Rabbi as he pulled from his beard. "I was reading it before you were in diapers!"

"But we are the same age, numb skull!" replied the priest. 

"Oh, so what happened with being meek?" replied the rabbi. "What does the good book says about that?"

"It says I'm about to kick your ass if you don't back the hell down," said the priest. "You don't know me!" 

"Bring it, Gomez! I know Jewjitsu!" said the rabbi as he tried, and failed, to appear even remotely threatening. 

One of the protesters approached the two men as they squared up against each other. "Eh, everything okay?"

"Everything is peachy, my son," said the priest as he tried to make a spinning crane kick, and failing. "I just have to put some fear of the Lord on this fool."

"Feh! Go threaten the geese!" said the rabbi. 

The protestor shrugged, letting the two make vague contact moves at each other while the rest circled them, chanting a new battle cry. 

"Zombie Gras has to end, no more witchcraft or spells!"

"There's that Zombie Gras thing again," said Chuck, who like the rest of the ghost was watching with mild amusement at the two men going at each other. 

Smokey floated next to him and pretended to put a reassuring arm over Chuck's shoulders. "Chucky, you gotta see around you. Find something weird?" 

"I'm allergic to open spaces," said Chuck without skipping a beat. "I can trick my brain into thinking I'm in my apartment if I never acknowledge I'm out. I'm imagining this whole scenario as if I were at home, on my couch, binging on Tarantino movies." 

"Well, you wanna look around," repeated Smokey.

Against his better judgment — and imagining everything is just a really HD 3D flat screen image, Chuck saw his surroundings for the first time since leaving home. 

Every building was decorated in cobwebs and oversized, plastic spiders. There was a cauldron on every corner, and even the streetlights were decorated with shambling zombies made of burlap and Goodwill clothes. 

Not to mention the huge Zombie blimp floating over the city, catching the first few rays of the full moon as the sun gave its last dying breaths. The whole city was decked on faux Halloween paraphernalia. 

"Wait, are we in October?" asked Chuck. "Weren't we on April 30th? Oh, God, how long have I been dead?" He began to have a panic attack, floating through the crowd like a disco ball of sadness and fear. "I missed like, six deadlines!" 

"Calm down, mister," Said Double-Murder, trying his best not to sound like a death-row inmate. "We in April. This another thing. Ever heard the phrase 'Christmas in July?' Well, this is 'Halloween in April,' so to speak." 

Chuck stopped dead in his tracks while still shining in full panic. "What? That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. Which dillhole came up with the stupid idea of having a second Halloween in the middle of the summer?!"