The Book of Malachi Carvanive: The Antagonist

By Nathaniel D. Reidhead

Based on a mixture of demonology and witchcraft, The Book of Malachi Carvanive is a story introducing readers into a world of magic and mischief. The story revolves around Malachi Carvanive, who is sacrificing his sister for immortality in a contract with a demon named Belial Valentine. All the while, a war is on the brink of total mass destruction between two legions of demons and angels. Malachi and Amos Blood, a demon phoenix, must first deliver the Vegvisir compass to the demon Belial as part of their contract. Then they will have to track and face the seventy-two demons that threaten the world while simultaneously prevent the uprising of a new king of the underworld. Find out what happens when the antagonist reveals himself to Malachi and threatens his plans for immortality, a new life, and happiness.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Apr 6, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546228462

Nathaniel D. Reidhead

Hello, my name is Nathaniel Reidhead. I am currently 19 years old and reside in Florida, United States. I have always loved reading and writing. Whilst my long time passion of becoming a BAU or a therapist still piques my interest, I have long since carried the story of Malachi Carvanive in my heart and only just dreamed of sharing it with the world. Hopefully, I have procured from within the recesses of my mind a wonderful collection of words to articulate the sadness, humour, and anger that flourishes around Malachi in an attempt to attest to the magic that exists within our mortal world.

Book preview

THE BOOK OF

MALACHI CARVANIVE

THE ANTAGONIST

BOOK ONE; VOLUME I

"For you who couldn’t love me,

For you who couldn’t understand me,

For you who just couldn’t."

-N.D.R.

NATHANIEL D. REIDHEAD

40311.png

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2018 Nathaniel D. Reidhead. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  02/13/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2847-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2845-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-2846-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018901750

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Chapter One: My Name is Ignominy

Chapter Two: And He Chokes on Feathers

Chapter Three: The Littlewell Mansion

Chapter Four: The Demon Carvanive of Littlewell

Chapter Five: To Weep For A Willow

Chapter Six: Who Am I Really?

Chapter Seven: And The Blood Runs

This book is dedicated to:

My mom.

My brothers Zaxaurie & Benjamin.

My sisters Amanda & Zoe.

And a few others:

Mikayla Burris

Aundalina Lykke

Miranda Bullington

Jessie Lee Goodman

Brandon Williams

Katrina Gratton

Melanie Mayfield

Ben Axel Addie

Mickey Jones

Lakelyn Simon

Rayna Hartung

Micheal Hartung

Jennefer Hartung

Sue Ellen Dousa

And of course:

East Newton High School R-VI

2015-2016 Creative Writing Class

1st Hour

Dearest Reader,

I hope this letter finds you well and that you find that this book as a testament of the will of the gods rather than the product of my own volition. I would most definitely also dislike it if you met Malachi Carvanive. You see, he’s a rather facetious invention of the time as I would often lie awake at night wondering what kind of mischief he has gotten himself into. It has now become imperative that my readers are aware of the world in which they reside and that they must know that there is true magic in this world. Hidden beneath the sea, in your ear, and behind closed doors, the craft is a real thing that coexists with us in many forms. I apologize, I should think that you should know.

This book is for those that could never love me for in the hopes that this story brings you the adventure you thought we could never share. This book is for those that could never understand me in the hopes that it brings you the closure or peace of mind rather than trifling through my underwear drawer. Have you found my secrets yet? I should think not.

More significantly, this book is for those that simply couldn’t. This book is for the ones that simply couldn’t dream. The ones that could lay awake at night and once upon a time dream how amazing it would be to ride a dolphin in space while commanding an army of hyper intelligent race of frog men. Seriously this is for you, my reader who has forgotten the magic.

Your friend, Nathaniel D. Reidhead

CHAPTER ONE

My Name is Ignominy

The town of Littlewell, Virginia had been one of the original settlements dating as far back as Jamestown during the establishment of the first colonial territories. Its rich lore of witchcraft and history of mysterious deaths was its only source of tourist appeal. For years, the town displayed the diminishing estate ruins as the only empirical artifacts with a story to tell.

For someone who feared change, I never imagined that the worst circumstance to afflict myself would be the implications that which only mere existence could affect. Simply put, I feared the change of never changing and becoming an idol of sessile character. I feed off the comfort that only the consistent and foreknown pattern of my actions can supply as well as those around me. It’s consequential. A constant come and go rhythm of cause and effect that I obsess to foreshadow and strain to comprehend. All the while, I find myself observing others in a strenuous attempt to profile and adapt. So, I lie, and I deceive with the greatest exertion to reject others before I am rejected myself.

Imagine the day when you got older and the world around you threw away your stories into trash bins, your memories hid away in the boxes full of less than mediocre poems, and your toys given away to that mean freckle faced boy with the buck teeth and bright, uncombed, red hair. Envision the heartbreak you felt when you knew that even though high school was such a drag, you found yourself later wishing that you had everything back. That scummy locker you once forgot to lock and now your vandalized belongings donned fallacious, obscene graffiti, the homework you dreaded doing the minute you got home, and that ugly sweater your mom made you wear to school no matter how hard you pretended to be allergic to the fabric. I knew the longing for the lie to be true that maybe your best friend hadn’t killed herself, that your mother hadn’t swerved, and that your father hadn’t drank. I remember the joy of getting just above average in math, the sadness of being abandoned, and of course, the day you have the audacity to come home to mom and dad crying because you screwed up and now you have detention with that scary 5th grade teacher nobody likes. But of course, it was always because of that ass kissing Cindy Lou Who with the braces whom always had a spare apple to give.

Point being, all I wanted was a new life. Instead, I have become enamored with lies and suffocated by a myriad of validity in which I run from in the hopes of becoming, ironically, a paragon of oracular wisdom.

I watched as smoke rolled off my lips as I took a shaky drag from my cigarette, my left hand stuffed in my pocket, bearing the frigid wind. I would often hide behind the apothecary in the alleyway next door to Marion’s Bar & Grill, a small-town rendezvous for promiscuous hookers, rather questionable men in aviator jackets, and douchebags with popped collars ready to pull a switch on unsuspecting soccer moms exponentially more defined than Rocky Balboa. That is, if Rocky wore cashmere sweaters and jeans three times smaller than needed, attempting to appear more feminine– often failing by the way.

As I leaned against the brick wall behind me, I bemused myself with the fighting couple across the street: The woman was oblivious to the cat eating at her broken high heels sprawled in pieces across the pavement as the man shrugged off her accusations of infidelity unbeknown to him of the second man pocketing his wallet.

Shrugging, I put out my cigarette on the sole of my shoe, I would like to think Martha would know better after her sixth divorce. I said acknowledging Matt who rounded the corner, his brow furrowed in disapproval. The left side of his jaw brandished a large bruise and the skin of his knuckles looked as though they were rubbed raw.

Don’t tell me you’ve been spying again. You realize people get shot here for that? Matt inquired, Speaking of which, you remember that spat you had yesterday at Marion’s?

I squinted up at him, Vaguely.

His name was Marcus and he sends his regards. He said gesturing towards the bruises on his face. Which ones though? Perhaps bruises can be read like a painter’s brush strokes and differentiate between the artist. I suppose if Matt was the canvas, Marcus and his father would most definitely be liberal arts majors.

Whose Marcus again? I don’t recall. I noticed a bug crawling on my arm and flicked it off; Matt stared down into his coffee with dismay as it drowned in the black abyss.

His jaw set, Tall, polo shirt, lip ring?

The one with the mouth sores and the Mulan tattoo?

No. Johnny Cash.

My eyes lit up and I laughed, Oh right. Yeah, he was so wasted. I ran a hand through my hair. Truth was that I had been too far gone to remember him or anyone with a Disney fetish embellished on his arm.

Matt tossed his coffee in the trash and placed a kind hand on my shoulder; it was rough and callused. I had the urge to burn the wart growing between his middle and index finger.

Did you think about my offer? You know I could have JoAnne and Candice over by nine. Matt said with a stupendous grin, both idiotic and warm; he even had the wiggling eyebrow. You know, the suggestive talisman of sexual innuendo?

I stared at him and my eyes narrowed as I squinted at him, I never realized how enormous your forehead is. Did you always have such a bulbous noggin?

Malachi, seriously, he insisted, I’ve already asked three other times and they’re getting impatient.

I pushed his arm away and he dropped his hand. Matt beat his chest enthusiastically, Come on, these are twins we’re talking about! I need my wing man. He pleadingly gave a sarcastic pouty face, I’ll even let you drive my Camaro if you want?

I’d sooner walk half way across the world than drive that hunk of junk. I scoffed as I pushed past him lighting another cigarette.

I couldn’t quite decide what was worse. The fact that I was his only friend or that he was the only person who seemed to enjoy my company.

He bit his lip and slouched in defeat, Fine. Be that way but make up your mind before eight.

Don’t count on it douchebag. I said jokingly.

Butthead.

The silence became deafening and then the feeling of tension set in. I remember going to great lengths to avoiding Matt in the past. I found him to be more of an unpredictable liability, but he turned out to be a great friend, though I would never admit it aloud, and even better– he was a terrible liar. That’s why I liked his company and the enormous lack of intelligence. He was a doofus with a predictable personality and an unquenchable addiction to sex and conformity, but as amusing as he was, Matt was only a means to an end; a simple fill in for my amusement whose only inherent preponderance was to cure me of my incessant boredom. I have always only cared for myself and I always will.

Hey Malachi? Matt looked at me with an expression of distaste and uncomfortable fidgeting, Do you think that Lilith will make it out of the hospital?

I didn’t respond, instead, I watched as another bug crawled up my arm. It was my turn to watch it fly, with dismay, off my forearm, past Matt, and straight into the garbage. With contempt for all that is insufferable, I refused to be amassed into an evicting pool of self-pity, but rather, my intentions suggested that I am very much aware of my own fallacies. I have instead, gorged on my own flaws like the maw of a carnivorous beast, and hunger for more than rhetorical dissidence. Lately I have become an imposition to those around me