She had no time to respond and only the beginning of shock registered on her face before she fell to the ground. The offshoot was no longer attached to the bough. Instead, it was impaled in the back of her head, a head which was weirdly misshapen from being hit forcibly with the branch. You were surprised the wooden cudgel hadn't broken with being used as a weapon but it was still intact, held loosely in Stephen's hand. From nowhere a thrush flew down, a speckle breasted bundle of energy, and perched on the stem. It pecked at the crushed pieces of skull before flying off.

"Well done!" Stephen said, crushing the still lit cigarette underfoot. There was a cracking sound as the dead fingers holding it shattered. "Now, tell me what you're thinking."

You looked at the woman. Neither of you felt the need to hurry or hide her. She was going nowhere. Any other runners would decide to take a different route. You had time.

"The water she's drinking is poisoned. There's a river and she tries to drink the fresh water because of the burning in her throat."

You crouched down to look closer at the wound in her head. You touch it, pressing to feel the give in the bone. It felt like an Easter egg which had broken beneath the foil wrapper. You were tempted to dip your finger in the blood and taste it but resisted. It wasn't chocolate.

"She falls into the river," you continued, straightening. "The current takes her away, hitting her against rocks. She wakes up in the bath. Maybe she's dead or something inside her is. She gets revenge on the husband who poisoned the water."

Stephen slapped you on the back, dropping the branch. He clapped his hands, applauding you.

"Excellent! That's great! It needs some work but it's a promising start!"

You smiled. You'd pleased him. You'd pleased yourself, too. Murder and the resulting flash of ideas was invigorating. You were eager to try again.

"Let's move this, first," Stephen said. "She'll be found eventually but let's not upset any others who might come by. Don't want to spoil their day."

"That's thoughtful of you," you said, taking hold of her wrists.

"I'm like that," he said, smiling.

He lifted her legs and, together, you carried the woman away from the path, dropping her amidst some dense undergrowth. As you went back to the tree, you picked up the water bottle, which had emptied half of its contents onto the foot-worn mud, and took a swig.

"Thirsty work," you said.

Stephen nodded and you followed him, kicking the cigarette end into the roots of the tree as you went. You returned to the car and drove home. You thought you may as well call it 'home' - you'd most likely be inheriting the house along with his life.

The rest of the day, until evening, was spent writing. You were sat on the opposite side of the desk from him - from the actual Stephen King - writing! The fact that this wasn't necessarily the same King who had created the early masterpieces didn't matter. It was still him. And you were working together. More than that, when you showed him your work, he liked it! As the afternoon faded and the sun moved down into the perfect position to make you shield your eyes, he stood.

"Let's go stretch our legs," he said.

"I'd like to keep writing, if we could?"

"No," he said, his mouth a sly line and his eyes narrowed. "Let's go stretch our legs..."

You took the hint and jumped to your feet.

"OK!"

Pulling up to a park, you sat in the car watching the children climbing and swinging and dogs running after thrown balls. Parents were either talking to each other or staring at their phones. You looked at Stephen warily.

"What's the plan?"

He was staring at the children, seemingly lost in the sound of their laughter and shouts. He didn't answer.

"Stephen?"

"How about a child?" he asked quietly. He blinked to break the spell he was under and looked at you.

"A child?"

"Yes," he said. "That'd be the ultimate, wouldn't it?"

"Have you already...?"

"No." He shook his head, looking almost regretful. "Not yet."

You thought about it, but couldn't bring yourself to imagine hurting a child. Besides, what had they done to deserve death? Wasn't that the whole point?

"I don't think I can," you said. "Not a kid."

He looked back at them and nodded.

"Yeah, probably right. Come on."

He opened the door and climbed out, immediately setting off towards a group of trees close to the playground. You silently prayed there'd be no fallen branches. You were in luck. Stephen pointed.

"What about that?"

A dog? You could do that. The prospect of killing a child had caused some of your previous trepidation to resurface but it was quickly pushed back down were it belonged, in the depths of your reason where it could be locked away and forgotten about. You had a fleeting image of the dog, a large black mongrel with a mass of messy fur, biting someone for no reason other than they were in the wrong place. It was in contrast to the reality you were seeing - dog and young boy tumbling for possession of a ball.

"Trust it," Stephen said, watching you. You looked at him quizzically. "You saw something. I could tell. Trust it. It's never wrong."

"Have you killed a dog before?"

"Sure," he said happily. "Where do you think Cujo came from?"

"I thought it was something to do with a garage in the middle of nowhere?"

It seemed so much of what you knew about this man was false. Rather than disappointing you, it drew you in further. The mystery was part of the game you were playing. The mystery would soon be cloaking you! Stephen shook his head.

"Nope. A St. Bernard and a little girl. I saved her, actually. Ain't I great?"

"Sure are."

You turned your attention back to the animal. The boy pulled back his arm and threw the ball towards you. The dog bounded after it, skidding to a halt at your feet. It sat, wagging its tail. You had the ball in your hand. It was small, bright red and firm. Solid and weighty, but not heavy enough to be of any real use. You looked at Stephen for help. He was already prepared.

The gun didn't make much noise thanks to the silencer. The dog made even less as it collapsed in a scruffy black nest. You shrugged. Whatever worked.

"Talk to me," Stephen said.

You had no hesitation. The idea was there, as bright as a button and twice as shiny.

"The dog is rabid, but not like Cujo. It bites the boy and dies. The boy becomes feral. He wanders the streets, eating from bins and sleeping in alleys. His parents and the police are hunting but the boy is changing. His hair is growing. His teeth too."

"I love it," Stephen said, clapping his hands. "You've got it."

"Got what?" you asked, pleased you'd made him happy.

"It. Like everyone's favourite clown, you've got the balloon and are letting it carry you away. I'm impressed - it took me a good five or so attempts before he told me I 'had it'."

"He?" you asked, but you knew.

"The other Stephen King. Anyway, how does it feel?"

"How does what feel?"

"To be crowned the new King?"

You frowned. Already? But it was so fast! And what would he do?

"Good...?"

"Don't worry, that's just how I was. Now, to quote one of my favourite films - Highlander - for the last. Because there can be only one."

He pulled a knife from his coat. You recognised its simple handle and keen blade. You were simultaneously confused and sure of his intention.

"No," you said, shaking your head. "I can't. Not you."

In the fraction of a second for the memories of what has brought you to this moment to stream through your mind, he has taken your hand and wrapped the knife in your hands. He is still holding them, bringing them forward and up so the tip was at his throat. You try to pull back or let go but you can't. It's not entirely due to his grip, either. Your own hands like the feel. They enjoy the anticipation.

"Do it," he whispers. "Take my crown. Be the King."

So you do.