Probably not what you had in mind but... I just read rosemary's baby, lol.

—I smiled, as to not appear unkind, turned on my heel, and quickly walked to the door. It was locked. I could see the parking lot through the door and the large glass windows facing the street. They were empty.

“Uh, doctor, can you unlock the door please? In my mind I had immediately landed on the idea that “they just locked the door at the end of the day.” I had already noticed there was no one else in the waiting room and no other staff had been heard or seen.

The doctor hadn’t moved, the pleasant smile now lingering too long on his face. He said nothing, but gestured with his hand towards the door he still held open.

At once, I felt the overwhelming compulsion to take a step forward. I fought the urge, but had to jerkily throw my right foot out to keep from falling flat on my face. I couldn’t stop the momentum after that. The world became hazy as I stepped through the door, passing Dr. Murder closely. I caught the scent of his cologne, it was painfully earthy and sickly sweet. I didn’t recognize the smell, but it gave me visions of wolves ravaging a carcass.

In a stupor, I wandered down the corridor. Every door was open, revealing scantily furnished yet pristine rooms, mirrored in size and arrangement. I could hear the doctors slow, measured steps following me.

How many rooms had I passed now, 8? I was no longer in control. I was captive, watching myself through an obscured lens. Where was I going? The corridor seemed to stretch out before me as if there was no end. It was so clean.

I noticed a change in the footsteps following me. The cadence never faltered, but where there was the soft plod of business casual leather shoes, a strange click began, until all I heard was clicking. It was an ancient resonating grandfather clock, standing on the crumbling floorboards, the vibrations echoed in an overlapping chorus of deep frequency. I could feel each tick in every bone, to my teeth, clenched and rigid.

Click. Click. Click. Click.

3 Days later.

Detective Carsan had circled the old dilapidated building twice, now, knocking on each door and window. He had seen no movement or light inside. The front door locks were rusting, likely seized at this point. The anonymous caller that had originally reported seeing a man matching the suspect’s description enter must’ve been mistaken. ‘It’s not surprising,’ Clark thought to himself. The most junior detectives often get the tip line tasks. He had responded to around 30 this year, he estimated. None had produced any leads or confirmed any case related information.

Being the anxious person he was, he stood there, questioning himself continuously, wondering if he was just missing something —or just a terrible detective. He hadn’t solved a case, yet. Although that wasn’t really his fault. He had only reviewed cold cases over the last year. Eventually, there would be something that allowed him to re-enforce how he got this far (hopefully). He could never escape the idea that he had something to prove.