Author's Notes: I've had this idea in my head for quite some time. Enjoy my newest story.

Disclaimer: I do not own "Nightmare Before Christmas". It belongs to Touchstone Pictures (Disney), directed by Henry Selick, and is based from the story of Tim Burton.

I am the Shadow on the Moon at Night

Chapter One: Alone

1935, North America:

She ran for her life in the dark forest. Each breath she took felt like needles in her lungs, sweat and tears dripped down her face, the dry leaves crunching beneath her bleeding feet were excruciating, but she didn't care, she just ran.

The outside was cold and dark, the only source of light that she had was the full moon, but that only made the trees look like they were reaching out to grab her, but she pressed on, knowing that the real problem was somewhere behind her. She didn't know where she was going, and she didn't care, she just wanted to get away. She jumped over what appeared to be a tree stump protruding from the ground, but her dress got caught and she fell on her face with a hard thud. The leaves of which she fell on badly scratched her face, but she quickly got up and continued to run in the unknown darkness; toward what she hoped was salvation.

After what seemed like forever, she finally stopped running. Using her hand to lean against a tree, she threw up and didn't stop heaving until there were no more contents in her stomach.

Slowly straightening herself up she slowly scanned the area around her... Nothing. Not a sound. She looked around her surroundings again... Nobody, just her. All she saw was her messy blonde hair in front of her face.

She took a deep breath then heaved a huge sigh of relief as she sat down with a loud thump and a crunch from the leaves. She escaped, and that is all that mattered. She closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath and then slowly exhaled, trying to calm herself.

"Molly." She heard a low voice say. It wasn't loud, but to Molly Hatch, it was a dagger to the heart. Molly kept her eyes closed, telling herself that she was imagining things, that it was just the wind playing tricks on her... but she had to make sure.

Molly didn't want to look, like how a child doesn't want to look under their bed, but Molly told herself that she had to make sure. So she mustered up some courage and slowly opened her eyes.

She saw nothing but her hair. Relief flowed through her. She did tell herself that she was only imagining things. She started to laugh a hysterically. It was a laugh of relief and accomplishment. She continued to laugh... and laugh... and laugh... until a strong grip started choking her. She felt herself being lifted by her neck. Through blurry eyes she could see the silhouette of a big man, her attacker and probably soon, her executioner.

Molly couldn't breathe, the man's powerful grip was cutting off oxygen to her burning lungs. She tried to escape from the man's grasp, digging her nails into her attacker's hand, but that only made the attacker laugh at Molly's failing attempt.

The man lifted something shiny and long from his other hand. Molly's eyes grew wide upon realizing what it was: it was an axe. The attacker used the tip of the axe to move Molly's hair out of her eyes, wanting her to see it all. The man lifted the axe high above his head. Molly couldn't look away as the axe was brought down.

The man laughed as he compacted the dirt into the new grave; the darkness of the night concealing the action. Then the man covered the fresh dirt with leaves and twigs, making it look like the rest of the ground. Once that was done, he turned away from the grave and walked away with a satisfied grin.

February 27th, 3:00 PM, 1914, Western United States of America:

Nobody loved him. That was the awful truth. No one liked him. No one wanted to be near him. No one wanted to talk to him. His teachers hated him. His mother didn't even want him. Nobody wanted to help him.

He was just a little boy, a little boy crying in the forest, his knees tucked up to his face, wet from his tears. He had enough of this! Why won't anyone like him? What has he done to deserve this?!

The little boy cried with silence, and he was so alone.

Author's Notes: Thanks for reading. Short, I know, but this is what is known as a hook. This story will be written with his childhood and his adulthood written together; it gives the reader a feeling of curiosity.

Please review, my friend.