The Best New Horror 2 by Ramsay Campbell

the curtain back.
    The tubes flowed, nutrients in, wastes out. The monitor beeped. Bags dripped and pumps growled softly. Anne moved to the end of the bed. She forced herself to see what was before her, what she needed to see, and not be distracted by the machinery about it.
    The flesh of the chest twitched slightly and irregularly with the work of the wires. Every few seconds, the shuddering breath. It would be cold, Anne thought, yet the blanket was folded back at the foot of the bed, a regulation piece of linen which served no purpose to the form on the pillow. With the wires and tubes, a blanket would be a hindrance. The neck did not move; swallowing was for the wakeful. The head as well did not move, except for the faint pulsing of the nostrils, working mindlessly to perform their assigned job.
    Anne moved her hands to the railing of the bed. She slid around, moving along the side to the head of the bed. Her feet felt the floor cautiously as if the tiles might creak. She reached the pillow; her hands fell from the railing. Her face itched and again she refused to give in to it.
    Through fear-chapped lips, she said, “Stephen?”
    The monitor beeped. The chest quivered.
    “Stephen?”
    The sleeping face drew up as if in pain, and then the eyes opened. As the lids widened, the muscles of the cheeks seemed to ease. He blinked. His eyes were slate blue.
    “I hope I’m not bothering you,” she said.
    “No,” he said. And the eyes fluttered closed, and Anne thought he was asleep again. Her hands went to her face and scratched anxiously. She pulled them down.
    Stephen’s eyes opened. “No, you aren’t bothering me. Why would you think that?”
    “You were sleeping.”
    “I always sleep.”
    “Oh,” Anne said.
    “You’ve been spending time with Michael. What do you think of him?”
    “He’s . . . fine. It’s good to spend time with him.”
    The head nodded, barely, sliding up and down the pillow, obviously an effort. “You are Miss Zaccaria.”
    “Anne,” she said.
    “Anne,” he repeated. His eyes closed.
    “Do you want me to go now?”
    His eyes remained closed. “If you wish.”
    “Do you want me to?”
    “No.”
    And so she stood those very long minutes, watching Stephen slip into sleep, trying to absorb the reality of what was before her, counting the beepings of the heart monitor.
    Again the eyes opened. “You are still here.”
    “Yes.”
    “How long has it been?”
    “Only a few minutes.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “No, that’s all right. I don’t mind.”
    Stephen sighed. “Why don’t you sit? There is a chair over there somewhere.”
    “I’ll stand.”
    “Michael is wrong. I do mind his music. I hate it.”
    “I could ask him to keep it down.”
    “It’s not the volume. It is the music. Music was created for movement, for involvement. I feel a straight jacket around my soul when Michael plays his music.”
    Anne said nothing for a moment. Stephen looked away from her, and then back again.
    “Why do you let them think you are comatose?” Anne asked.
    “That way I can sleep. When I sleep, there are dreams.”
    “What kind of dreams?”
    “Ever the clinical social worker,” said Stephen. And for the first time, a small smile crossed his lips.
    Anne smiled also. “That’s me,” she said.
    “My dreams are my own,” he said. “I would never share them.”
    “All right.”
    “And I would not ask you to share yours,” he said.
    “No,” said Anne.
    “I’m tired,” he said.
    And when she was certain he was asleep once again, Anne left.
    “I liked college, my studies there. The psyche of the human is so infinite and fascinating. I thought I could do something with all I’d learned. But I wasn’t smart enough to become a doctor.”
    “How do you know?”
    Anne shrugged. “I know.”
    “And so you are a therapist,” said Stephen.
    “Yes. It’s important. Helping people.”
    “How do you help?”
    “I listen to them. I help them find new ways of seeing