To Kill a King

1

He was meant to be retiring. That's what he'd said. What the reports and papers told you. Not the world or your friends and neighbours. No. You. They were speaking directly to you.

Retiring. Hanging up his pen and keyboard like old coats which had kept him warm and dry throughout so many cold winters but were now threadbare and needed to be relegated to the cupboard under the stairs. He'd said it before, of course. You initially thought, after the last time, the books he was releasing were old ones, kept in the safe at the publisher until it was their time to grab the spotlight and be loved by millions. But this time it was real this time he meant it. You could feel it in the gravity of his words. The depth of his stare as he announced he was leaving the world of horror behind.

You cried at first. How could you not? He was the best. He was the King!

You read the newspaper article for the fourth time, not quite believing what it was saying. Your mind still tripped over the words, struggling to make sense of it.

Stephen King invites YOU into his home! Learn from the true Master of Horror!

'YOU' it said. YOU.

You are no Annie Wilkes, you know that. You're not his greatest fan, though you feel no-one could love him or his work as much as you. There'd always be someone who would profess to adore every single stroke of his pen or touch of his keys and that adoration may well exceed your own. But yours was real. It was something you could grab hold of with both your hands and feel and, even, taste. The others were really pretenders to your king's throne. You didn't just love him, you wanted to be him.

Of course, this was impossible. You'd tried to write. You couldn't. The ideas weren't coherent enough. Whenever you attempted to put them down on paper, longhand to be typed up at a later date when the scribbles and edits had been remade countless times, they lacked coherence. They seemed to be a jumble of nonsense which paled when compared to his.

But, now was your chance. Now you could possibly not only meet him, but learn from him. Feel his guiding hand on yours as he leads you through the shadowy halls of his imagination to pass on his legacy as he shuts the doors for good.

The prospect made you shiver with excitement. You read on. The closing date was soon, with the winner to take the prize at Halloween. Of course! When else? Could it be more perfect?

The entry requirements were simple. Write about why you liked Stephen King's books. The only real problem was where to start. They filled your days with wonder and your nights with dark dreams. You lost hours whilst reading them as if you held a time machine which kept hiccuping you into the future. From Carrie onwards, through On Writing and The Dark Tower, you were under his spell. When Dr. Sleep woke your Shining obsession, you were positively giddy. You wrote your letter stating exactly that. You had no need to fancify or elaborate. You just told it how it was.

And you waited. And waited. And let life get in the way of your waiting so you didn't forget but didn't remember.

Then you won.

The letter was plain where you thought it should have been emblazoned with the word WINNER! You almost left it on the side until later. It wasn't a bill and nor was it junk mail. It'd wait until you got round to it. But, as you walked away, something stopped you. Curiosity killed your step with a stab of wonder. You took hold of the envelope, your grip stopping your breath from escaping.

Carefully, for if it was the letter, you'd want to preserve both it and the envelope it came in, you prised it open. Simple white paper. Elegant but reserved letterhead. A brief paragraph, but one in which each word held the weight of your world on its shoulders.

You've won. At first your reaction is as quiet as the statement.

"We are pleased to inform you..."

As if it happened every day. As if they were ordering a cheeseburger, fries and a drink, no ice.

The excitement built slowly, as if it were bursting at the seams of your control. Then it broke them and you. The tears flowed. Your hands clapped and your legs jumped. The glass of water smashed, knocked from the table as you hit it whilst spinning across the kitchen. It remained ignored until later when you'd calmed down enough to contain the thrill. You cut yourself on a piece of glass and bled onto the floor. You couldn't help but smile, the pain feeling appropriate somehow. The master of horror had invited you to his home. Blood was surely the cream on a spine-chilling cake.

You wondered what he was like. Of course, you'd read the articles and interviews, watched the television spots. You knew him as much as any fan might know their idol, but you realised that probably wasn't the whole story. He had his private side. Once an addict and now a family man, he would always, you were sure, hold something back. Would you see it? Would you be brought into his inner sanctum - either physically or emotionally?

No. Don't get ahead, you told yourself. It may well be little more than a meeting with the man himself and a signed copy of On Writing. The memoir was one of your most read books and you had used the advice therein to try and hone your craft. To... not mimic his, but to... pay homage to. Your writing, though it might be a shadow to his sun, was your tribute and your alter to his literary perfection.

You didn't sleep that night. The next morning, you called the number given and made the arrangements. You didn't sleep that night either and, for the following week, you could only catch a few hours of slumber amid the constant stream of thoughts flowing through your mind like the Falls of Niagara. Possibilities. Potential conversations. The meals. The laughter. The passing of his magic touch onto you.