Hello everybody! This is my first fanfic so go easy on me! I know its a bit early to christmas but its only 34 days to go yes!

Disclaimer:I do not repeat,DO NOT! Own any sonic characters

Here are the characters in this chapter:

Shadow-ebenezer scrooge

Eggman-jacob marley

Tails-bob cratchit

Without further ado on with the show! Enjoy!

-H.S.H

Eggman was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Shadow signed it: and Shadow's name was good upon 'Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old eggman was as dead as a door-nail.

Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that eggman was as dead as a door-nail.

Shadow knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Shadow and he were partners for I don't know how many years. Shadow was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend and sole mourner. And even Shadow was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain.

The mention of eggman's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that eggman was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet's Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot - say Saint Paul's Churchyard for instance - literally to astonish his son's weak mind.

Shadow never painted out Old Eggman's name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Shadow and Eggman. The firm was known as Shadow and Eggman. Sometimes people new to the business called Shadow Shadow, and sometimes Eggman, but he answered to both names: it was all the same to him.

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind- stone, Shadow! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dogdays; and didn't thaw it one degree at Christmas.

External heat and cold had little influence on Shadow. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn't know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often "came down" handsomely, and Shadow never did.

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, "My man Shadow, how are you? When will you come to see me?" No beggars implored him to give a trifle, no children asked him what's the time, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Shadow. Even the blind men's dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, "No eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!"

But what did Shadow care? It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call "nuts" to Shadow.

Once upon a time - of all the good days in the year, on Christmas Eve - old Shadow sat busy in his counting-house. It was cold, bleak, biting weather: foggy withal: and he could hear the people in the court outside go wheezing up and down, beating their hands upon their breasts, and stamping their feet upon the pavement stones to warm them. The city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already - it had not been light all day: and candles were flaring in the windows of the neighbouring offices, like ruddy smears upon the palpable brown air. The fog came pouring in at every chink and keyhole, and was so dense without, that although the court was of the narrowest, the houses opposite were mere phantoms. To see the dingy cloud come drooping down, obscuring everything, one might have thought that Nature lived hard by, and was brewing on a large scale.

The door of Shadow's counting-house was open that he might keep his eye upon his clerk, who in a dismal little cell beyond, a sort of tank, was copying letters. Shadow had a very small fire, but the clerk's fire was so very much smaller that it looked like one coal. But he couldn't replenish it, for Shadow kept the coal-box in his own room; and so surely as the clerk came in with the shovel, shadow predicted that it would be necessary for them to part. Wherefore tails put on his orange comforter, and tried to warm himself at the candle; in which effort, not being a man of a strong imagination, he failed.

Then a man with a strong mind and powerful voice bursts in shadow's office...

Ooooooo! I wonder who this is? Find out next chapter! read and review plz! it would mean the world to me! also who should be the ghost of chrismas past,present and future? you decide!

Se ya!