He was around the car and standing in front of you before you could properly react. You'd barely seen him move.

"Yes. You did," he said, his face close to yours. You could smell his breath. Cinnamon. "Deal with it."

You slumped. He was right. You had agreed. You said you'd do anything. You planned to do anything, you just hadn't imagined what 'anything' might entail. You had signed in blood a contract you hadn't even read, too eager to please him. Too eager to accept everything he told you.

"That's better," he said, stepping away. He pointed at the body. "Any ideas?"

You shook your head. Your mind had emptied itself of any lucid thoughts and was an empty vessel making no sound.

"No?" He was shocked. You were shocked at his reaction. How were you supposed to think of anything under the circumstances? He pointed again. "Look closer."

You did. Your feet moved freely, the sticky feel of blood beneath your shoes giving you no pause. Nothing. You shook your head. Stephen sighed.

"I'll tell you my idea." He turned to you, ignoring the dead man who had served his purpose and was now not needed. "He's homeless. He was once, not so long ago, rich. He had everything but it wasn't enough. Terrified of losing the money, women and lifestyle, he sells his soul. There's a pawn shop which deals in such things. He has continued success but, when it's time to pay the price, he doesn't want to give it up."

You realised you were leaning in, your foot stepping towards him, your attention captured in the net of his storytelling ability. You tried to stop yourself and address the horror around you, but couldn't. It no longer mattered.

"The price still has to be paid, however," Stephen continued, "so it's taken in... let's call them instalments. First to go is his wealth. Next, his family and friends. Then his health and finally himself. Wealth, health, himself. A prefect trinity. He begins to fade. To dissolve. Maybe he's hit by a car and the driver stops to help the man they've injured but there's nothing there. The impact dissipated the last whispers of him."

It wasn't just the story he was relating which held me. His was his tone. His inflection. It was masterful.

"How's that?" he asked, walking around the car and climbing back behind the wheel. You moved in next to him, ignoring the mess on the screen.

"Great," you told him. "Really good."

"And that's how we do it."

"You kill people?" You were stunned. Surely that wasn't it. He killed people and used their suffering to create his books?

"Pretty much," he said. "But it's more than that. They deserve it. I don't know all their stories, but occasionally I get flashes of what they've done to mean they're not going to be much of a loss. Anyway, it's only death. No big deal."

"No big...? It's murder! It's illegal! What if you get caught? What if we get caught?"

"We won't," he said simply.

"Of course we will! There'll be evidence. Witnesses. How do you know there's no CCTV around here?"

"It doesn't matter. It'll be blurry. Or evidence will be inconclusive. Witnesses will be unsure what they saw. Trust me."

He was Stephen King. How could you not trust him, but still!

"I don't understand." You shook your head, your hands in your hair as if wanting to pull it out and search for answers in the roots.

"You don't need to. Just accept it. Early on, I even killed someone in front of a policeman. He didn't flinch. He just bent and tied his shoelace. The body wasn't found for another two hours."

"That's crazy!"

"It all is! But it's also exciting and wondrous and bizarre. And it's all yours!"

Yours. Something you had wanted so much was now in your grasp. You had it, yet you wanted to drop it and run. You wanted to smash it against a wall, breaking it into so many pieces it was unrecognisable.

But you couldn't. You wouldn't. As disgusted as you were, something was changing in you. The abhorrence was fading, like the man in his story. You were starting to feel... different. He said it was only death. He was right. If no-one knew, what did it matter? If there were no consequences other than fame and fortune, didn't that make it even a little right? Especially if they deserved it?

Stephen was driving. You didn't know the area and a small part of you was hoping he'd choose a new victim. You were actually disappointed when he pulled into his garage.

"Go to bed," he said. "I'll clean up the car and we'll set out early tomorrow. We've got a lot of creating to do."

You lay there, on your bed, for a long time before sleep took you. Your dreams were filled with screams, but they sounded musical. Your sleeping form hummed along to their tune, though you didn't know.

A coffee and a gentle shake woke you the next morning. Stephen was standing over you.

"Ready?"

You nodded.

"Sleep well?"

Another nod. You had. You couldn't remember your dreams but felt as if they'd been good ones. You were well rested. Stephen left you alone with your drink and, as you sipped it, you thought about the previous night.

It could have been a movie you'd seen. The pieces of skull which had been left in the cracked glass were the popcorn. You felt distanced from the events. Were you even there?

You laughed. Of course you were there. Maybe you'd get another chance to see 'just death' again today!

After dressing and going downstairs, you found Stephen already in the car. It was sparkling clean, with the windscreen showing no sign of the impact or the gore. You asked him how he'd managed to have it repaired or replaced so quickly.

"I didn't," he said. "I just cleaned up the blood. If you leave it long enough after... getting creative, it repairs itself. It only takes a couple of hours or so, but it's never happened while I've been watching."

"Seriously?" you asked.

"Seriously. I've tried sitting in front of it for hours until I've fallen asleep and it's then that it's happened. I've tried cameras and it's done nothing until they've been switched off."

"Cool!" You were impressed. Even less chance of discovery, but a car which healed itself was almost magical. It was adding to the fun.

Fun? You were enjoying this? Yes, you actually were. In fact, you couldn't wait to get started.

"Are we ready?" you asked.

Stephen smiled and nodded, tipping an imaginary hat.

"Yup."

You drove away from town, chatting about Stephen's stories. He didn't go into detail about the various muses but there was enough information to leave a trail of bodies and blood and limbs behind you like Hansel and Gretel's breadcrumbs. After a while, he pulled up in a car park surrounded by trees.

"Where are we?"

"This forest is popular with hikers and joggers wanting something more strenuous than pavements. Plenty of inspiration here."

You followed him into the woods, a bounce in your step. There were many paths criss-crossing between the trees, some converging for a while and running straight before separating to go their merry ways, others laying haphazardly as if the people or animals who made it had walked with their eyes closed and no sense of direction. You could hear voices off in the distance and, from somewhere, music.

"Here's fine," Stephen said.

You looked around. The area you'd stopped in appeared to be the same as any other. Large bore trunks dotted with an occasional troop of mushrooms. High branches. A scattering of bushes. It didn't seem to matter whether you stayed here, moved on or went back the way you'd come a little. Then you saw why. Stephen bent down and picked up a thick branch. He pulled the leaves off the end and the smaller twigs to leave a single one sticking out like a nail from a fence post. He stepped back behind the closest tree.

"Coming?" he asked when you hesitated.

"Oh!" you exclaimed, jumping to join him.

The pair of you waited. You were holding your breath but he was breathing normally. Calmly. You tried to do the same and somehow managed it. Suddenly, there was a jumble of voices and the thudding of many feet. Runners jogged past, laughing among themselves. Stephen stepped back and you followed. He leaned backwards to look around the tree. You could just see past him and saw a woman straggling a little. She stopped at your tree, for you had claimed it in the name of Literature, and leaned against it. One of her friends called to her but she waved them on.

"I'll catch up," she said. "I need to take a breath and some water."

The rest of her friends continued and, once they were gone, she unzipped the bag around her waist and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it and drawing a long drag. She blew out the smoke from her nose and it clouded in front of her face. She wafted it away with her hand.

Stephen looked at you and raised an eyebrow. You stepped forward.

"Those things will kill you," you said.