I'll critique your horror stories!

He’s not quite sure where he is or how he ended up here, but the one thing the Doctor knows is that he shouldn’t be here and that he has to leave right now.

Except for the fact that he can’t. Every step he takes leads him further and further into the maze.

There’s red curtains everywhere, the floor a tiled zigzag pattern of black and white. As far as the Doctor can tell, there’s a hallway that connects two nearly-identical rooms, and no matter how many times he tries to leave he always ends up back here in the damn hallway. One of the rooms is nearly empty save for a couple statues of who he assumes to be Aphrodite; the other contains a couple leather chairs, maybe a couch, and some fancy lamps.

Since he figures there’s not much else to do, the Doctor takes a seat in one of the chairs. A few moments later, one of the curtains that makes up the walls in this eerie-ass place parts and in walks a dwarf with cropped black hair and a red suit.

“Who are you and where am I?”

The dwarf just stares at him for a few moments with cold, blank eyes and an off-kilter head tilt as he sits down in the chair. When he speaks, his voice is high-pitched, slow, and distorted: “When you see me again, it will not be me.” There’s another pause, another eerie-ass stare. “This is the Waiting Room. We’ve been waiting for you.”

The Doctor’s mouth has gone dry. He swallows hard. “What d’you mean?”

The dwarf says nothing for a long while, stands and stamps his foot in a brief tap-dance movement before sitting down in the chair again and studying him with that unnerving expression. “Would you like some tea?” he asks at last, smiling. “Some of your friends are here.”

The instant the last word is out of the dwarf’s mouth, there’s the sound of heels clicking on tile and suddenly Rose Tyler is there, crouching down next to the chair facing him with one hand on the armrest. She’s wearing a slinky black number and the Doctor’s hearts stop beating for a second. Because she can’t be here. She can’t. If Rose is here then that means she’s …

Those familiar light-brown eyes suddenly glint gold; her warm smile now almost predatory. That’s when he knows: This isn’t Rose. It’s—

“Hello, Doctor,” the Bad Wolf says, her speech just as slow and distorted as the red dwarf’s.

His eyes widen. She’s come for him, he can feel it in his bones—or whatever the Gallifreyan equivalent for the human expression is, anyway. He shrinks back in his chair away from her, heedless of the red-suited dwarf’s penetrating gaze.

A smile plays on her lips; she winks, snaps her fingers. “I’ll see you again, my Doctor.”

Then she’s gone—if she was ever there at all.

The Time Lord’s eyes narrow as he stares down the much smaller man. Where is she? What have you done with her?! The questions are on the tip of his tongue, but he’s unable to spit them out. Each time he tries, it’s as if an outside force smothers his mouth and sews his lips shut.

Rassilon, he’s beginning to hate this place.

“Fire walk with me,” the dwarf grinds out, and for an instant the Doctor has an impression of a ball of flame roaring up into a night sky. Then the room is plunged into darkness and white flashing strobe lights. A scream—one he’s well familiar with—pierces the air, and his blood runs cold.

That’s Rose’s voice.

A snarl rises from his throat; he’s on his feet and stalking across the room to the exit.

Between the dark and the flashing lights, he doesn’t notice that the dwarf has vanished.

Everything is strangely silent by the time he’s in the hallway and walking the short distance to the other room. He draws the scarlet drapes back, steps inside… and sees nothing. The room is empty, save for furniture set up in a mirror to the opposite room. Wary now, the Doctor steps back and makes his way to the original room.

The dwarf is there, sitting completely still and pointing an accusing finger at him. “Wrong way!”

“Sorry,” the Doctor mutters sarcastically, retreating and walking back to the other room. Every so often he pauses, glances back over his shoulder. He can’t quite shake the feeling that he’s being watched, and there’s something wrong about this place, something he cannot quite put his finger on.

There is no one there save for himself when he first enters the room. Then there’s the sound of maniacal laughter and the dwarf appears, hands and legs twitching with that wheezing cackling pouring from his throat as he sits back in the green velvet armchair, his eyes never leaving the Doctor’s.

“Another friend!” His laughter now sounds more like he’s fighting for breath; his hands convulse as he lifts himself from the chair, slowly walks around behind it. The instant he’s out of sight, the laughter stops.

A female figure is silhouetted through the curtains; when she enters the room, the Doctor pales and steps back.

She looks like Sarah Jane, but she can’t be Sarah. There’s no way. Sarah’s still alive—he knows she is.

“My Thief.” Like the red-suited man and the not-Rose, her voice is distorted, slowed. She may resemble Sarah Jane Smith in looks, but that’s as far as the resemblance goes. “Watch out for yourself and my Wolf.”

Before the Doctor can respond, not-Sarah fades away to nothing.

Thoroughly spooked now, he backs out of the room and jogs back down the hallway. Entering the other room, he freezes when he sees that it is completely empty. There’s no furniture, no sign that anyone was ever here.

He glances down, notices that the dwarf is there… except, there’s something off. His face is a grotesque mask, his eyes milky white and the pupils a murky pale blue.

“Doppelganger,” he snarls, his arms and legs twitching as though he’s about to break out into a dance.

The Doctor glances away, spots not-Rose there as well. Instantly the little hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He has to get out, get out before…

Her eyes are the same murky mixture of white and pale blue; her hands are positioned as though she’s holding up a painting or a cup of tea on a saucer. “Meanwhile…” Her head throws back, mouth gaping open. The effect is nightmarish—and that’s before she starts shrieking a blood-curdling scream that sends a cold chill down the Time Lord’s spine.

Lights flicker over her face in a myriad of pinks and blues before the room is plunged into darkness.

The Doctor knows nothing after that.