Dorothy’s Forbidden Grimoire Novel - Chapter 407

**Chapter 407: Investigation**
**Conqueror Sea, North Shore – Nawah**

As she walked along the northern fringe of the seaside town of Nawah, heading back toward the urban center, Dorothy’s attention was drawn to a sizable enclosed compound nestled at the foot of a nearby hill. Her keen eye picked up on something off about the iron gate—specifically, the metal frame mounted in its center.

The inner edges of the screw holes were pristine compared to the surrounding grime on the frame, signaling that a sign had recently been taken down in haste. That alone was enough to catch her interest. She discreetly directed one of her corpse puppets to slip inside and survey the premises.

What the puppet reported made her pause.

Someone had taped mismatched letters to a column just past the entrance, spelling out a name: “North Slope Mental Hospital.” It was now the second psychiatric facility she had found in Nawah.

Only the day before, after her confrontation with Massimo and the walk back inland, she’d passed Anxika Mental Hospital. That place had struck her as unusually serene—a perfect recovery environment. Yet here she was, just a day later, discovering another similar institution on the town’s outskirts.

She lingered a moment with her family-style puppet, standing quietly on the lonely road below the hill, staring at the buildings. Her casual demeanor gave way to a quiet unease before she resumed her walk toward central Nawah.

*Nawah… From that hilltop, I got a good sense of its layout. It’s not a big place. Might even be smaller than Igwint. Does a town of barely 100,000 really need two mental hospitals?*

As she moved along the roadside, her thoughts churned. Igwint, to her knowledge, had no psychiatric facilities at all. Having two in Nawah seemed… disproportionate.

*And that gate’s sign was clearly yanked off just recently. A damaged sign doesn’t usually get removed so abruptly. Was it replaced? Or was something being concealed?*

Her suspicion began to simmer. While she walked, the small puppet still inside the compound carried out its investigation. It quickly became clear: despite the locked exterior doors and sealed windows, North Slope Mental Hospital was active.

Through the puppet’s gaze, Dorothy surveyed long corridors lined with patient rooms. In every room, people of various ages and genders wore the same institutional garb—gaunt, pale, drained of vitality. Some lay motionless on beds, gazing blankly upward. Others sat limp by windows, eyes ringed with deep, discolored shadows, dulled beyond recognition.

The puppet swept through several connected buildings at a quick pace, allowing Dorothy to form a rough estimate: there were around forty to fifty patients. And disturbingly, they all shared the same blank, insensible stare, paired with pronounced dark circles—as though none had slept properly for days.

Despite the vast property, not a single patient could be seen outdoors. Everyone was confined within.

About a dozen staff members moved about, diligently feeding, cleaning, and caring for the residents. Whenever a patient erupted into fits of frenzied screaming or flailing, the attendants responded immediately and restrained them with practiced ease.

Dorothy observed the facility via the puppet for over an hour as she strolled through the city. Nothing overtly unnatural stood out. Overheard conversations among the staff were mundane—local gossip, routine chatter, all perfectly grounded in the ordinary world. There wasn’t a single sign of the Hidden world here.

And yet… something still felt wrong.

It was the eerily consistent nature of the patients’ conditions that disturbed her. In her experience, mental illness came in many forms—manifesting differently from case to case. But every individual here showed the same symptoms: extreme fatigue, mental deterioration, and a shared aura of sleeplessness.

A handful of cases like that might be explainable. But a whole facility filled with nearly identical cases? That strained believability.

*Is it possible the entire population of this city is manifesting the same psychological condition…?*

Finishing her scan of the hospital, she mused. If she had seen a broader range of symptoms, she might’ve chalked it up to coincidence. But this uniformity—this eerie sameness—it wouldn’t leave her.

Mental illness wasn’t contagious. So why did they all appear afflicted in exactly the same way?

The sense of unease deepened. Dorothy kept her puppet stationed inside for a further two hours, monitoring all it could. In that time, she unearthed the reason for the sign’s removal: a municipal beautification directive. The city had ordered it taken down just the day before. A replacement hadn’t yet been delivered.

With no additional discoveries, she finally withdrew the puppet and continued on toward the city center as dusk thickened.

Once in town, she picked a promising eatery and settled in. Ordering a spread of regional dishes, she began her meal.

*That mental hospital… Nothing extraordinary at first glance. But the strange pattern among the patients lingers in my mind. Is this city suffering from some localized outbreak of a very specific kind of mental deterioration?*

Nibbling at a slice of Castilian ham, she mulled over the day’s events. Her years in the Hidden world had sharpened her instincts, making her quick to sense when something didn’t sit right.

Driven by this unease, she issued new orders. While she ate, she redirected the puppets she’d previously dispatched to search for the White Stonemason Guild—though unsuccessful—to instead canvas the town, gathering intelligence about Nawah’s psychiatric institutions.

Under her subtle guidance, the puppets approached locals and struck up casual chats, steering the conversation gently toward the hospitals.

One of the more fruitful exchanges came from a street vendor.

“Hm? You mean our mental hospitals?”

“Yes, exactly. I was wandering near the outskirts yesterday and noticed something odd—this city seems to have two of them. Found it strange, honestly. I’m from Falanor—my hometown’s about the same size, but we never had a psychiatric center. Just wondering—do people from nearby towns come here for treatment?”

Standing at the entrance to a side alley, Dorothy manipulated a puppet dressed as a casual tourist, currently enjoying a round sugar candie it had just bought. The vendor took a moment to think, then responded.

“Well now, you’re pretty observant for someone who just got off the docks. But actually, you’re a bit off—we’ve got three, not two. And no, they don’t serve outsiders. All the patients are local Nawah folks.”

“Three?” the puppet repeated, startled. “And they’re all filled with townspeople? Is this city particularly prone to mental health issues?”

The vendor gave a grave nod.

“Yeah… Sometimes a person’s perfectly normal, then all of a sudden they go blank. Start acting strange. Confused, sluggish. Some scream in the night, totally out of nowhere. Makes it impossible for neighbors to sleep.

“Elders say it’s something we’ve lived with a long time. We call it ‘Withering Sleep Sickness.’ It’s been here for generations. Families just deal with it when it strikes.”

“Withering Sleep Sickness? So it’s part of local history?”

“Sure is. Though it used to be rare. Maybe one case every year or two. But starting seven or eight years back, it got worse. More and more fell ill. That’s when the city started building those hospitals. First one, then another, and now the third. Each time, they fill right up. Some whole families end up committed… it’s terrifying. Kids leave the city just to escape it.”

The man’s tone grew somber. The tourist puppet nodded and passed him more coins.

“Thanks for the insight, sir. Another of those candies, please.”

Dorothy had the puppet purchase another sweet, supporting the vendor and keeping the conversation warm. The man smiled as he handed over a crescent-shaped treat.

“Sleep well tonight, sir.”

“Sleep well? That’s an interesting way to say goodbye.”

“It’s a local tradition,” the vendor said cheerfully. “We always say that when handing out these moon candies. Used to beg for them as a kid—‘Sweet dreams! Give me sweet dreams!’”

Dorothy, controlling the puppet, glanced at the moon-shaped treat in its hand.

“Sweet dreams…?”

With this new information in mind, she began summoning her puppets back. Alone at her table, she reviewed what she’d learned in Nawah, her brow furrowing.

*Withering Sleep Sickness. A recognized condition among locals. They’ve normalized it. But something changed seven or eight years ago—it started spreading fast. Three facilities built in that short time. A city this small, needing three psychiatric wards…?*

*Tch… I have a very bad feeling about this.*

Finishing off a plate of chorizo, Dorothy’s thoughts turned darker.

—

**Nightfall – Nawah**

Inside a modest sitting room, a woman in her forties—broad-shouldered, dressed in black—sat stiffly in a cushioned chair, eyes locked forward with intensity. Standing across the carpet from her was a sharply dressed man in his thirties.

The woman spoke first.

“Status report, Joe. Have you figured out why the Church fleet came? Was it really just a drop-off?”

Joe inclined his head in deference.

“Lady Garcia, we’ve confirmed that the escort fleet had no predetermined mission. They stumbled across survivors from a merchant shipwreck, rescued them, and docked at the closest port—Nawah—to unload them. Purely humanitarian. They likely have no idea about our activities, or Nawah’s significance.”

Garcia sat in silence for a beat, eyes narrowing.

“Unplanned… just offloading survivors… No connection to Hidden affairs? Hmph. If they’re truly innocent, explain the chaos at the harbor that same day. And what about that incident near Desolate Stone Beach? Simply disembarking passengers shouldn’t have disturbed the ether like that…”

Her voice dripped with skepticism, and her final snort carried a sharp edge of doubt.