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The Reverend's eyes grew wide. "Come inside," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. The Reverend took Trisha to his study. He sat her in a large, red, armchair in front of a large fireplace with a roaring fire. He sat her down, "Let me get you some tea," he said. He stalked into the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. He looked over his shoulder to make sure Trisha wasn't looking. He pulled out his cell phone and called the Bishop. Bishop Franque woke up in his dark chambers to the ringing of his phone, "Hello?" he answered it. "Bishop....I have some intriguing news..." Reverend James whispered. "The Scribe?" the Bishop asked. "Yes," James replied, "We know who he is." Franque smirked, "Who is he?" he asked. "A young boy by the name of Kyle Blythe. He is a young, 16 year old, boy who lives here. He is in the hospital right now, his house was attacked by the figures in white robes." The smile on Bishop Franque's mouth grew. He sighed in content, an inhuman snarl escaping his lips. "Bishop?" James asked. Suddenly, the Reverend gasped and dropped the phone. Decay grew from his heart as his clothes and skin began to turn to that of a corpse. In that moment, it came to him. "Traitor!" James gasped to himself. "Reverend?" Trisha asked, hearing the unusual noises. She walked through the door and shrieked. Reverend James was on the ground; a corpse. His skin had turned green, decayed, and rotted to the bone. He was like a skeleton with skin. The Reverend's face was mummified. His eyes closed wide shut and mouth open in a scream. One bony hand clutched his heart and the other raised into the air, as if trying to reach for something under unimaginable torture. Trisha took a few steps back, her face pale with fear. She bumped into someone. She shrieked and spun around. "I am Bishop Franque," he explained, "I was in town in secret, helping the Reverend with his search for the Scribe. But it looks like the Scribe already took him out." Tears slid down Trisha's cheek, "He wouldn't..." she whispered. "Who?" Franque asked. "If you're talking about the Scribe, I wouldn't be surprised." Trisha looked confused. "You can't honestly tell me that the Reverend told you nothing of the Scribes in the past?" Franque asked. Trisha shook her head. Franque motioned for her to to follow him to the study.

    They sat in the chairs. "Each Scribe that has walked the Earth so far was a spawn of Satan himself," he explained, "The first Scribe was back in the Persian Empire. King Xerxes of the Persian Empire was the first body the Spirit took form in. The spear King Leonidas of the Spartans threw at Xerxes was filled with Holy power. It forced the Scribe spirit to leave Xerxes' body, even though it didn't kill him. After Xerxes came Akilla the Hun. After Akilla, the spirit lay dormant for a while. But it returned in the wicked fantasy of an unknown person, but the fantasies of this person caused the Black Plague. After that, the spirit once again lay dormant, until it returned in the cruelest form it could be; Adolf Hitler." Trisha's eyes grew wide, "But, Kyle couldn't be like him..." she whispered, "Kyle is nothing like Hitler." The Bishop shook his head, "They all start out like that," he whispered, "Until they realize what they are capable up, they attempt to rise above the Lord, and believe themselves to be a god. That's why we must stop them before it's too late." Trisha looked at her feet, Tears flooding from her eyes. "Don't cry, my child," he whispered, "This nightmare will end soon. Where is this Kyle right now?" he asked. Trisha took a deep breath. "He's in the hospital, Room 402A." Franque nodded, turned and left. He smirked as he walked out into the cold night. His plan was working just like he planned...