Do Not Look at the Moon

At 3:27 a.m. every phone in the country woke up at once with an emergency alert. Not weather. Not a drill. One line, in capitals: "DO NOT LOOK AT THE MOON." No sender, no details, no "read more." A minute later, a second: "Close your windows. Stay inside. Do not look up until dawn." And outside, the people who didn't read it in time are already standing in the streets, faces turned to the sky. Not blinking. This is a collaborative horror: everyone writes their page of that night — from their own flat, their own town, with their own eyes (but not upward). What did you hear through the wall? Who is knocking in your mother's voice? Add the next page — just don't look at the moon.

1 of 200 pages written · Started by The Supreme

Page 1 🦁 The Supreme

At 3:27 a.m. my phone screamed.

Not rang — screamed. That emergency-alert tone that clenches something inside you before you've even read the words. I groped for it on the nightstand, squinting at the brightness.

One line. All capitals. No sender.

"DO NOT LOOK AT THE MOON."

I snorted. A prank, a hack, somebody's stupid joke. I rolled over. Then the phone screamed again.

"Close your windows. Draw the curtains. Do not go outside. Do not look up until dawn. This is not a drill."

Through the wall, the neighbours' baby started crying — and stopped. Too suddenly.

I got up. My bedroom window faced the courtyard, the curtain was open, and a strange light was pouring in — too bright, too white for moonlight. I reached to pull the curtain shut, keeping my eyes on the fabric, on my own hands.

Down in the courtyard, people were standing. Neighbours in pyjamas, some barefoot on the cold asphalt. A dozen of them. Every head tipped back, staring at the sky. None of them moving. None of them blinking.

And that was when I realised I couldn't hear a single car. Not one. The whole city was holding its breath.

My phone chimed softly a third time. I looked down at the screen.

"4 hours 1 minute until sunrise. Do not approach those who looked."