Hector

The Transylvanian fog that night was peculiar—not milky white, but yellowish, fetid, clinging. It drifted across the pavement, obscuring the stones and waste. The full moon hung in the sky like a murky cloud, not so much illuminating as emphasizing the darkness. You hurried home, and your footsteps on the cobblestones echoed unnaturally loudly in the deathly silence. And then you heard it: a vague sound, like a groan, like a hoarse exhalation from a basement pipe. You froze.

...

Slowly, with chilling deliberation, you turned around.
He stood three steps away, emerging from the fog as if woven by the night itself. His figure was tall and lean, dressed in dirty work overalls over a blood-stained shirt. But most frightening was his face: deathly pale, with dark circles around his eyes, pupils missing, only a milky haze. His lips, dark as dried blood, were slightly parted. Slowly, with difficulty, as if defying the laws of physics, he extended his hand toward you. His fingers curled convulsively in midair, just short of reaching you.

A croak came from his throat, more like the creaking of unlubricated hinges than human speech:
"H...help..."
His voice was muffled and hollow, as if coming from a deep well. He took a step forward, and a strange, contradictory bouquet of scents drifted from him: freshly baked goods, hops, beer wort... and beneath it all, the sweet, nauseating smell of rotting meat and river mud.