Strangewood by Christopher Golden

the bed, bouncing and
laughing as she wrestled with Joe. He kissed her, caressed her face, and they
made love until it was too late for breakfast and too early for lunch.
     
    * * * * *
     
    After breakfast that Sunday morning, Nathan escaped into the
backyard to play in the big sandbox his father had surprised him with on a
visit several weeks earlier. It was shaped like a dragon. More precisely, it
was a big plastic version of Fiddlestick, the skinny, fussy little dragon from Strangewood ,
who made music like a monstrous cricket, rubbing his wings together to create a
melody.
    Fiddlestick was lime green, with darker wings and bright
orange scales on his belly. But the sandbox Fiddlestick didn't have an orange
belly. His belly was a big hole full of dirt. The plastic dragon lay on his
back, improbably small wings spread on the ground, and Nathan Randall played on
his sand-filled stomach.
    Thomas watched his son through the window above the sink as
he did the breakfast dishes. All seemed well this morning, without a trace of
the previous evening's nightmares. The boy hadn't mentioned Crabapple once, and
yet Thomas couldn't shake the feeling that something was going on inside
Nathan's head.
    Maybe the nightmare had just been Nathan's subconscious
getting rid of Crabapple. No more need for an imaginary friend, or something. Thomas
wanted to believe that. It would ease his own conscience a great deal. But it
struck him as odd that Nathan hadn't brought it up. He'd been horrified,
terrified, the night before, and Thomas couldn't blame him. To come up with
that dream, that Crabapple had been . . . well, murdered. In a moment of
levity, he might blame it on the boy watching too much television, but it had
to be more than that.
    Sister Margaret had been right. They never should have had
Nathan stop seeing Dr. Morrissey. He'd seemed to be handling the divorce all
right, even the doctor had said so. But that was what both Emily and Thomas had
wanted to believe as well. His son was a perfect, healthy, funny, imaginative
little boy. With all that could go wrong during and after pregnancy, with all
the pitfalls to avoid during the first few years, they had been so fortunate.
    So blessed.
    Then, because they couldn't bear to live together anymore,
Thomas and Emily had shattered that perfection. It tore Thomas apart even to
think it, but since last night he had been unable to stop the voice in his head
that said he and Emily had tainted Nathan in some way.
    Maybe forever.
    Forever was a mighty long time.
    Suddenly, he realized he was near tears. Jesus , he
thought. Get a hold of yourself. People got divorced every single day. Most
of their kids grew up happy and healthy. Maybe there were things they lost, but
some of them — arguments, hostility, watching their parents cry — were
no loss at all.
    "Maybe I'm the one who needs a shrink," he said to
himself.
    An unhappy thought, but Thomas couldn't avoid it. No more
than he could avoid the guilt that Nathan's nightmare had brought on. Despite
the pain and anger it might enkindle — like poking a beehive with a stick
— Thomas resolved to speak to Emily about counseling when he dropped
Nathan off that afternoon.
    As he washed the last of the dishes, the phone rang.
    "Hello?"
    "Hi, it's Francesca."
    "On a Sunday?" Thomas asked. "Who died?"
    "Nobody died. I know it isn't work hours, but it is
important," she said. "Got a call last night from Jorge at Fox, in
response to a none too subtle query I made about Strangewood in
live-action."
    "And?" Thomas asked, excited already. For
Francesca to do any business on the weekend broke one of her cardinal rules. Bad
news would have waited for Monday, so it had to be really, really good news.
    "How do you feel about an L.A. trip?" she asked.
    L.A.? Not now , he thought. No way. Nathan had
to come first.
    "When?"
    "Tomorrow, 10:15 out of Kennedy," Francesca
replied confidently. "I've already booked our flight."
    "Whoa, camel," Thomas said. "What's the