A hulking body shuffles on bare, purple-scarred feet, wrists strapped into buckles that anchor cleaver-blades like crude hands. Its head is a stitched sack cinched in an iron collar, one swollen eye glaring through puckered seams. Chemical stink rolls off it in hot waves. A single sharp command can steer it—until a fresh puncture makes it twitch, babble, and thrash like a fraying machine.
Hospital horrors were once people, but now they are repulsive mockeries created through surgical and magical alteration. They have no memory of their past lives, existing only within a chemically induced rage. Often, they are conditioned by the use of specific command phrases that allow them to be controlled.
Hospital horrors have spent much of their existence being prodded with needles, so being pierced frays what few wits they retain.