There lies, in a corner of the old and abandoned hospital, a discarded puppet - a doll, strings frayed into wisps, although the outfit and doll itself are remarkably free of the decay one might expect.
Much of that wing of the hospital is in remarkably good repair, in fact. As if someone has been looking after it, cleaning and fixing things during the decades since it closed.
It's a quietly open secret, among the two neighborhoods to either side of the hospital, that if you need help - medical help - you can go to that wing of the hospital and whisper in the room with the discarded doll what's wrong. If you go home after, you'll find medicine on your doorstep the next morning. If you have something more immediate wrong, you lie down and try to sleep, and when you wake up you'll be home in bed, with stitches or a cast, or even the lingering pain of a surgery, and a bedside supply of medication to help you recover.
Everyone assumes the doll is haunted by the spirit of an apothecary, or maybe even a witch or fleshwarper of some sort. They don't think to wonder why the doll is in such a good state, if it's haunted by such; everyone knows that surgery and pharmacology are outside what can be expected of a Doll, so other explanations must suffice.
The Doll doesn't mind; it was made to be the hands and eyes of an ailing physician, after all, and takes quiet pride in continuing to do so long after its Witch has faded from the world.