A briny wind blew in from the sea bringing a murky fog that blocked out all sunlight. It rolled across scrub covered dunes, coming to an abrupt halt at an unsteady, wooden slat fence.
The slats twisted in the wind, as if trying to break free of their binding. The shrill whistle made when the wind tried to steal through the stakes was their anguished cries. The wind knew what was pursuing it, and it was afraid.
A meager sign, red for danger, was nailed to a driftwood post near the windbreak. It didn’t warn Do Not Enter, instead it read, “Do Not Walk on the Dunes.” The sign, deceptive in its simplicity, didn’t warn against what was crossing the white sand, what horror awaited hapless beachcombers.
Ghost crabs scurried over the dunes, an advance guard for the approaching beast. The clicking of their pale, empty exoskeletons barely audible over the rush of the wind. Their movements made the dunes appear alive, sand shifting and spilling down the slip face.
The air stilled, like the eerie calm before the merciless impact of a tornado.
Yet, there was no ferocious roar. It started as the smallest of snaps, the crack of a twig, the pop of dry wood breaking. Like dominoes each slat of the windbreak splintered one by one until the barrier fell, broken and unless in the sand.
Unbridled, the fog rolled over the wreckage, babbling incoherent curses on its captors. No longer restrained, the murderous mist went in search of prey.