Sooner or later somebody in a horror campaign is taken in: a witness, a suspect, a player character. The card the institution opens that day says what the staff saw, and the ward notes under it say what happened next.
The institution and its address, the record number, the patient’s name and a photograph, their particulars, when they were admitted and who sent them, the reason in a paragraph and the diagnosis. Then the readings taken on admission, each with its unit, its normal range and a flag, so that a pulse of 38 is marked on the page. The observations fill the rest of the sheet, dated entry by entry, beside a list of what the patient had on them. The admitting physician signs, and a stamp you place yourself goes over it.
A 1920s Arkham sanitarium’s printed form typed into, a present-day psychiatric unit’s admission printout with a barcode, a colony ship’s revival intake from the cryo bay, and a temple infirmary’s book of the sick kept by the sisters in their own hand. Each opens with a patient of its own and a reason to worry about them. A4 at 300 DPI.
The blood results sent up from the laboratory are a Blood Test Report, and the patient who never left is an Autopsy Report.