The King Cake Debt: A Royal Street Ghost Story
The icing was still wet enough to stain our fingers purple and gold when the shop bell chimed, though the sidewalk outside was empty. Zoe didn't even look up. She just wiped a smear of cream cheese from her thumb and pushed the bakery box across the glass counter. She’d gone all out on this king cake—the kind you wait in a two-block line for at Killer Poboys. Living on Chartres, she has the timing down to a science.
I took a slice, the sugar hitting my system just as the pulse in my chest gave a strange, predatory beat. It wasn't just a heartbeat anymore; it was something denser, a half-human, half-supernatural engine that resonates like a heavy stone vibrating in a pool. Royal Street was a wash of neon and fog through the front window, but inside, the air felt cramped, heavy with the sense of Clarice lingering somewhere near the rare books.
"Don't choke on the baby," Zoe said, her voice low. She wasn't looking at the cake; she was looking at the reflection of the back room in the glass. "It’s a bad night to need a medic."
I looked down at the mangled pastry, waiting for my teeth to hit plastic, but the air in the shop suddenly dropped ten degrees. The sweetness on my tongue went cold. Zoe froze, her fork halfway to her mouth. We both looked toward the back of the store, where the shadows usually stayed put. The heavy, velvet curtains near the jewelry cases pulled taut, as if something was leaning its weight against them from the other side.
Then came the sound. It wasn't a voice, but a slow, rhythmic dragging across the floorboards, like a heavy coin being pulled through salt. On the counter, right next to the bakery box, a dusting of purple sugar began to shift. It gathered into a tight, jagged circle, vibrating against the glass until it formed a perfect, hollow ring—a mock King Cake made of nothing but sugar and intent.
"She likes the smell," Zoe murmured, her face going pale in the neon light. "But she hates that it’s hollow."
The dragging sound stopped right behind me. My heart gave a sharp, agonizing jolt, struggling to find a beat that matched the stillness of the room. I looked down at my plate. The plastic baby was suddenly sitting on top of my cake, clean and dry, as if it had been plucked out of the dough without me ever knowing.
Zoe reached out and touched the ring of sugar; it was freezing. "I think," she said softly, "Clarice wants a slice. Or a soul. It's hard to tell the difference when she's hungry."
That Clarice put the baby on my slice meant I had to buy the next one. She has a wicked sense of humor for a soul-drinker. By plucking that plastic infant out of the dough and dropping it onto my plate, she’d officially put me on the hook for the next splurge. Zoe let out a short, sharp laugh. "Well, Josh, the spirit has spoken. You're buying the next one. I’d suggest you don't cheap out on some grocery store ring."
I looked at the little plastic baby. It looked almost smug. My heart gave a final, disgruntled throb before settling back into its usual, unnatural pace. I leaned against the glass display case, watching the purple sugar ring slowly lose its shape as the humidity reclaimed the room. February 17th feels like a lifetime away, but in this city, Carnival time moves like a fever. Zoe was already humming a brass band tune, her wallet safe while I was tasked with finding a cake to satisfy both a coworker and a spirit who doesn't even have a stomach.
I’ve been running the options through my head. I’ve already crossed certain neighborhood spots off the list—some kitchens in the Bywater have more "uninvited guests" than we do here, and I’m not bringing a rat-run cake into Clarice’s proximity. Instead, I’m looking toward Caluda’s. Their dough is the real deal, consistent and heavy, the kind of foundation you need when the world starts to feel thin.
Still, the Bananas Foster from Brennan's is the favorite. It’s sophisticated and rich, carrying a scent of caramelized rum that might actually settle the heavy air Clarice leaves in her wake. I have until the 17th to make my move. Between the cold weight of the plastic baby in my pocket and the pressure of the deadline, the shop feels smaller than ever.
I was closing up the register when I saw it. Tucked just under the edge of the keyboard was a fluorescent yellow post-it note. The handwriting was unmistakable: Philippe’s tight, disciplined script.
“Caluda’s. The Bananas Foster is for tourists. We need something with enough weight to hold the shadows down. Get the Praline.”
I looked over at Zoe, but she didn’t look up from her lockets. It’s typical for Philippe to bypass the conversation and go straight to the logistics. He isn't interested in the showstopper; he wants the density of a Praline cake to act as a physical anchor in a room where the air is starting to vibrate. He’s seen what happens when the Trinity gets too light on its feet.
I crumbled the note and slipped it into my pocket next to the baby. It’s the high-society flare of the Bananas Foster versus the structural integrity of the Praline. One is for the show; the other is for the shop. I looked back at the shadows by the books. I think Clarice is waiting to see if I’ll listen to the living or the ghost.
I stood at the counter with my finger hovering over the "Order" button. On one tab, the Brennan’s—pure theater. On the other, the Caluda’s Praline Philippe demanded. One is a trophy; the other is a sugar-laden anchor meant to keep us grounded when the streets outside turn into a riot.
The pulse in my chest gave a sharp, buzzing ache. I finally made my choice, the click of the mouse echoing in the quiet shop, but as the confirmation page loaded, the temperature plummeted. I realized with a jolt that I hadn't been the only one looking at the screen—and from the way the shadows are currently curdling over the keyboard, I don't think Clarice agrees with my selection.
The Mardi Gras Debt: Which Cake?
Choose wisely. The shadows are counting.
DISCLAIMER: Please be advised that Clarice is known to frequent the server room. If your vote "slips" or the page feels unnaturally cold while clicking, she may be expressing a preference. We are not responsible for any supernatural interference with the final tally.
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