The Traveling Pencil Master

I can see your twisted, bitter face staring down the street towards that small, insignificant guy. Don't go to him, as he is the very, very source of evil in which these events occurred. If you dare read, continue now onwards...

It began last year when I was doing a small time con involving pencil sharpeners. I won't go into the details as the cops are still fiendishly after me. But I will drop this superfluous fact that will shock the very shock absorber of fate in which you feel secure: I was not alone...

Next to me stood my friend Timothy, a simple and chaotically useless piece of crap. We then went camping to the secluded forests where legends spoke of the pencil. The pencil contained the soul of the last great murderer. This guy had once skinned the very flesh of his feet to maker a pair of crocodile skin shoes. Yes, he was so EVIL that he had scaled reptilian feet. The legend spoke no more as the last one to see him alive had been shook senseless and now resided in a graveyard where no one could touch him.

As we got deeper into the forest, we came across an eerie cabin. The whispers began. I can hear them now as I type these words. They spoke of great evil, they said that we wouldn't see the way to death as death did not want us- we would be the nameless dead forever. But crashing through the woods came a large Barbarian, which shook Timothy out of his life cage. The man-cat then metamorphosed into a small child. Indeed, the cunning doppelganger had not counted on fate as then the real Timothy, using an untimely blunt object, stabbed the very beast form existence.

I looked at Timothy to see that the rage of the pencil had consumed him. The pencil tore the skin off his hands and soon his very tendons and muscles stood naked to the world. I gave him a proper beating and the carcass fell down before rising again striking me with the pencil. It tore out my kidney, but, by chance, I had another one spare. I quickly ran away as the very forest closed in and the whispers became the very soul of my mind. I swayed as the details of cunning murders crept into my head. Soon I as the murderer and I ran around Victorian Whitechapel to kill some whores.

You hear my tale and then you hear the very phone that I am hearing. I pick it up. It is my agent telling me if the plot of this creepypasta was this bad how do I except to be a novelist ever. But here is scary detail as I did not write this yet. I haven't written this yet. I do not know what creepypasta is. I don't have no agent.

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