Don't Look Up

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Here’s a tightened version under 3000 characters: --- The rule in town was simple: **Don’t look at the sky after sunset.** No one argued anymore. Not in Black Hollow. Not after what happened to the last person who did. People just… stopped asking questions. Streetlights flicked on early. Curtains shut tight. If you had to be outside, you kept your head down. Always. Eli didn’t believe in rules without reasons. “Seriously?” he muttered. “Don’t look at the sky?” Mariah grabbed his sleeve. “Keep your voice down.” “It’s not like the sky can hear me.” She didn’t smile. “My cousin looked once.” “And?” “He said something looked back.” Eli rolled his eyes. “That’s not an explanation.” “It doesn’t need to be.” By the time the streetlights buzzed on, Mariah had already left. “I’m going home.” Eli stood alone. The sky darkened to deep blue. “This is stupid,” he muttered. He walked with his eyes down… until curiosity won. “No one’s around.” He looked up. At first—normal. Stars. Moon. Then one star moved. Slow. Deliberate. Another. Then all of them. Not drifting. *Turning.* Like eyes focusing. Eli’s breath caught. “No…” They weren’t stars. They were points—hundreds—forming something too big to see at once. Something that filled the sky. Watching him. The darkness deepened—not night, but something closer. The “stars” sharpened. Like pupils tightening. He shut his eyes. Too late. The pattern burned into his vision. A face. Wrong. Vast. Aware. A low sound filled the air. **You noticed.** Eli dropped to his knees. “I’m sorry—” **They never look back.** His eyes snapped open. The sky felt closer. The lights blinked—all at once. **But you did.** Something cold brushed his cheek. Right in front of him. “I can’t see you,” he whispered. “So you can’t see me—” **That’s not how this works.** He ran. Didn’t look up again. He burst inside, slammed the door. Lights on. TV humming. His mom turned. “Eli? You’re late—” “I looked,” he gasped. She froze. Her eyes flicked upward—just for a second. “You… what?” “It saw me.” “It always does.” Her smile stretched too wide. “You think the rule protects you?” Eli’s chest tightened. “Then what is it for?” She stepped closer. The lights flickered. Outside, something shifted—heavy, immense. “The rule,” she whispered, “is to protect *us*.” His throat went dry. “From what?” Her eyes drifted upward again. This time, they didn’t come back down. Above them— the ceiling creaked. Like something massive had settled on the house. Watching. Waiting. For him to look again.