The Fortunate Slice

The Thibodeaux family had not buried a child in three generations. Their land held when the river swelled. Their businesses endured downturns that closed others overnight. Illness came, but it did not linger. It was understood that blessings, like harvests, required tending.

On the last Sunday before Lent, the king cake was placed in the center of the dining table. The youngest children were sent upstairs with strict instructions not to come down, no matter what they heard. The doors were locked. The curtains drawn.

Eight slices were cut. The baby was inside. Once each generation, it would be found. Once each generation, it would be claimed.

No one spoke of the origin of the pact anymore. The story had thinned over time, reduced to a single sentence passed down like heirloom silver: Prosperity in exchange for one willing heir.

Thomas stood at the head of the table now, as his father had before him. His eldest son, Julien, sat two seats down, newly married, a faint crease between his brows that had not been there a year ago.

Thomas noticed it. He said nothing.

“Eat,” he instructed.

Forks moved. Frosting smeared against porcelain. Outside, the wind pressed softly at the eaves.

The tap came quickly.

Julien lowered his fork slowly, revealing the pale curve of plastic nestled in his slice. His wife, Elise, went rigid beside him. For a moment no one breathed.

Julien exhaled through his nose and reached into the cake. He lifted the baby free. Its painted blue eyes gleamed in the chandelier light. Its molded brow was faintly furrowed, as though mildly displeased. “So it’s me,” he said quietly.

Thomas inclined his head. “It is.”Elise pushed back her chair.

“No.” Her voice cracked through the stillness like a dropped glass.

Julien looked at her gently. “You knew.”

“I knew the story,” she snapped. “Stories aren’t contracts.”

Thomas’ jaw tightened. “This one is.”

The air shifted. Coolness seeped into the room, subtle but unmistakable. The chandelier flickered. A narrow seam appeared in the plaster behind Julien’s chair.

Elise saw it first. “No,” she whispered again.

The seam widened. From within came the scent of burnt sugar and damp canvas. Faint carnival music drifted through — slow, distorted, patient. A pale hand emerged.

Julien stood before it could grasp him. “I go willingly,” he said, steady.

The hand paused. The air thickened.

Elise lunged. She caught Julien around the waist just as the creature’s fingers wrapped around his wrist. The skin of its hand was smooth and round, like molded porcelain stretched too large.

“Don’t you dare take him,” she hissed, digging her heels into the hardwood.

The room seemed to tilt. The rift widened further than it had in generations. Through it leaned the crowned face — massive, gleaming, blue eyes unblinking. Its brow furrowed deeply as it regarded the scene.

“Debt is owed,” it said, its voice pressing directly into their minds. “Debt cannot be contested.”

Elise tightened her grip. “We don’t want your blessing,” she cried. “Keep it. Leave us.”

For the first time, the creature’s fixed smile faltered, not disappearing, but stretching thinner.

“The payment must be received,” it replied.

The floorboards groaned. The chandelier swayed. Thomas moved as if to intervene, then stopped. His hands trembled at his sides. To interfere was to risk widening the terms.

Elise pulled with everything she had. For a single fragile moment, Julien did not move.

The creature’s eyes narrowed, and then it’s mouth spread into an eager grin.

“The terms have been amended,” it said.

The room went silent.

Thomas’ head snapped up. “No!”

But the creature had already adjusted its grip. A second hand slipped from the rift. It seized Elise.

Julien’s composure shattered. “Wait—”

The pull was sudden and immense. Elise’s fingers clawed at the tablecloth, dragging crystal and silver to the floor. Julien wrapped both arms around her, trying to anchor her weight.

The creature’s brow creased deeper.

“Debt collected,” it declared.

The rift tore wider. Wind roared through the dining room, carrying distant calliope music and the scent of spun sugar burning. Thomas shouted something lost in the rush of sound.

Then the seam snapped closed. The chandelier steadied. The air warmed. Two chairs lay overturned. The king cake sat undisturbed at the center of the table.

Seven slices remained.

Thomas stared at the place where his son had stood. On the floor lay the small plastic baby. Its molded brow was smooth again.

In the years that followed, the Thibodeaux family prospered beyond anything in their history. Land expanded. Wealth multiplied. Illness passed lightly over their door. But no one cut the cake the following year. Nor the year after. They told themselves the pact had been fulfilled more fully than ever before.

Twenty years later, on the last Sunday before Lent, Thomas’ youngest granddaughter found the old wooden box in the attic and thought it charming. The child looked down at the small plastic baby inside and smiled. Behind her, the wall made a soft tearing sound.

And this time, the rift was already wide