Nothing ever went his way did it? Even when he wanted to be invisible, he didn't have the liberty.

Though Grace tried her best to pay attention in class, she kept catching herself staring at Clay from the back. More so his hands as the boy's fingers twisted and played with his pencil. 

Perhaps she shouldn't have pushed him so much this morning, he was already mad and probably not in the mood to talk. Still, why didn't he want to talk to her? They talk about everything — well almost everything. She can't tell Clay her parents don't want him around her though. Besides its none of their business anyway. 

It always felt weird watching Clay in his natural habitat. It was clear that the boy easily reached himself from those around him. Even though he found himself seated to the very front in most classrooms he looked both like an outsider and someone who blended in to hide from his predators. 

Sometimes being transparent socially is more preferable than having your flaws seen by everyone.   

"Watch it you're drooling over the weirdo," Michael's voice brought her eyes back to the teacher. Pretending to have been paying attention the entire time, she continued to copy down the notes. 

"You know everyone thinks you feel sorry for him," Michael continued, leaning over just enough for his words to be audible "that's why you let him follow you around like a lost dog right?"

The only dog here was Micheal. Her cousin looked like the cross between a Saint Bernard and a toddler. He had silky low black hair that rivalled his exotic skin and a thin scar that stretched across his jaw from god knows where. For as long as she knew him, he had it. 

"Shut up Michael," she created a rhythm tapping her pen on the hardwood table. He didn't need his insistent yapping today as well, not after her parents "it's none of your business."

A light crash found its way to her ears. A hunting sensation grabbed possessed her body immediately. Clay's pencil now lying dead on the ground was the first hint that his cough from this morning meant more than he led on. From her position all she could make out was the shivering of his hand, moving from left to right with immense aggression. Everything only got worse from there. A cold shiver made its way down Grace's spine once she saw the boy's body clench and contort. His hand speed up sending the vibrations to his entire body. Clay slouched in his seat leaning dangerously close to the edge of his seat before collapsing on the frigid tiles. 

Grace shot up faster than Morris Katz could finish a painting, running to the front and pushing her teacher away from her best friend. What did an English teacher know about aiding someone with convulsions anyway? His eyes looked like spoilt mile rolled all the way back into his head, his skin, soaked with perspiration and his though calmer, made him move all around the floor.   Black foam seeped out of his open lips staining the tiles like tar. 

She just needed him to calm down. He couldn't die on her. Turning to ask the teacher for assistance, he was out of sight. Okay, calm down, she thought,  there is a high probability that he just left to call a nurse. Still, Clay wasn't showing any signs of ceasing at the moment. Something had to be done. Before her hands could reach him, however, a larger pair grabbed onto her.

"You shouldn't touch someone who is having a seizure unless you are absolutely sure you know what you are doing," she didn't want to but she agreed, nodding her head and instructing someone to call the nurse just in case. 

"He's probably just faking it," by the time Brett spoke almost the entire class was standing around Clay. Not for the reason, she was but to amuse themselves. It was amusing to them, he was a television channel to them. They did give the boy more than enough breathing room so as to avoid catching his disease. 

"Maybe he likes the attention finally being on him for once," Brett proceeded to get up close, bending down in order to grab Clay by the hair. Of course, that did nothing to help their predicament, his hand beginning to shake along with the rest of Clay's body. Brett was sure he was immune to catching Clay's crazy, unlike the others. 

"You're just like your mother aren't you." Releasing his grip, Clay's head smashed back down onto the tar-covered floor, making Grace wince.

"Hey!" her yell caused Brett to look at her with a smirk.

"Oh! I'm sorry," that voice alone made her hold back the urge to gag. Brett was just a hot air balloon. Not only did he look exactly like one but he was filled with so much hot air, he needed to wear the heaviest shoes possible. 

"I didn't mean to hurt your little boyfriend."

Grace froze for a moment noticing the considerable height difference, not to mention her head was smaller than his biceps. Yet, her palm connected with his face causing an echo the room. That still was not enough to make her feel better, unfortunately.

"At least he's not a disgusting heap of toxic masculinity and hot air like you are," she growled, "I wonder where you are going to end up when your poor excuse for popularity fades away after you graduate two years after everyone else here. I know I personally do not see you going to college any time soon."

This was Grace's reason to not communicate with these idiots. Never the less, when he tried to hide his red cheeks,  she slapped him again; much harder and faster than the first time to make sure her words stuck. 

...

A pungent mossy odour fumed into his nostrils as he clung to a nearby tree for support. Clay had long stopped fighting against this, content that this was a dream. Either he hadn't woken up this morning or he fell asleep in class for the first time. Nonetheless, the throbbing of his shoulder felt all too real. Even with a hand pressed against the gushing wound, there were droplets of blood running down his skin. This was nothing compared to that time he sliced his palm on a kitchen knife when he was seven. 

If this was a dream, would he not have been in control when he realised he was dreaming? This felt more like watching a movie in the first person. But whose eyes were he looking through? And why did this thing hurt so bad? 

His hands moved on their own, reaching in through the rip the arrow created in the shirt. Tugging on the fabric he exposed the damaged flesh to the cold stale air. Straight off the bat, he wanted to look away — if he could. The slit into his flesh gushed and oozed tones of reds and black. The skin resembled coal, devoid of all moisture becoming rugged and crack with black veins running under the. He could almost taste the metal from the blood spreading over his shoulder through stench alone. 

Clay caught himself moving speedily as the person he was possession dashed through the trees, ignoring their wounds. Leaning from tree to tree he managed to keep moving. He could not tell what they were thinking, where they were going or why he was along for the ride. Clay might have been in their body but he couldn't hear their thoughts or aid in the decision making. Yet, he could tell one this for sure; even if he could not see their face — they were terrified. The type where you keep moving even if you know you aren't going to make it in the end. 

Up ahead, he saw a small clearing with tree stumps littered within the soil. The sun made its way down to the otherwise dense gloomy forest indicating that it had to be somewhere around noon.  For a second he thought he could sense the sweet scent of roses but all his senses shut off when another arrow stabbed into his calf. "AHHH!!"

Clay felt himself being propelled forward slamming onto the wet dirt beneath him. It was a sensation he prayed never to experience. The wave of adrenaline that rushed around his body like an energy drink came crashing through the glass ceiling. All of it was replaced by agony. One that he was supposed to feel in his leg but spread everywhere at once. 

He could not even identify who had shot him. For all he knew, it was Robin Hood. Dread cluttered his thoughts. Clay had never died in a dream before, his nightmares were more...precise than that but he would take them over this any day.  This feeling that he won't be leaving the forest. Running wasn't in the question, the arrow was lodged in the bone and he couldn't remove it if he wanted to. What's the point of not being in control of your own body? 

"You shouldn't have run away," a ruff toneless voice sounded from the trees. Whoever Clay found himself watching through had their eyes too focused on their leg to notice the footsteps getting louder. "Things did not have to come this far. You could have come willingly and all this pain could have been avoided. Dea or alive is a choice my boy."

Another hand appeared. A grizzly hand with wrinkly skin barely visible under the long draping fabric of their sleeve. It grabbed onto the arrow tightly before twisting and pulling.

"AHHH!" he bawled.

"It's in there good huh?" the man kept trying to pull the weapon out from his leg. Clay choked on his own screams until it finally uprooted itself taking pieces of his flesh with it.  "there we go. We should get you patched up before you pass out from blood loss."

He gripped onto his leg in torture rolling on the ground unable to keep screaming. Not even that could force its way out his throat.

Thankfully, his head moved, allowing him to finally lookup. Strangely he was met with a welcoming smile. The man had painless warm brown eyes, looking nowhere over 45 with slick back golden locks hidden under the hood of what Clay could safely call a cloak of sorts. He seemed to tower over him — or was that because he was lying on the ground? Even his demeanour made it seem like he was here to help them, not hurt but the situation speaks for itself.

A flash of anger shined on his face, disappearing just as quickly as it arrived. The stench of moss he once smelled was replaced was that of blood and dirt. The pain in his shoulder was growing more unbearable. He couldn't feel his leg anymore either. That paired with the smile the man continued to have as he bent down to Clay's eye level made him wonder what kind of sadistic maniac his brain had conjured.

"This could have all been avoided if you just came willingly. You have the ability to help the rest of your people and what do you do? Behave selfish in order to save your own skin. You are one of the important ones Jonah."

Wait, did he hear correctly? Jonah? Why would he be in Jonah's body during a dream? 

"I- do-n't know w-what you're t-alking about," words left  Clay's mouth. It was weak and it hurt like everything else but it wasn't his voice, it was his brother's. He was in Jonah's body. 

He was aware that he was angry at his brother for what happened this morning. Yet, to have his dream be centred around him experiencing all this pain and fear in his brother's body was a bit much. It all felt real as well. 

"Please don't lie to me. We need you. You are the only one that can help us. So that we don't have to hide in fear, you have to be at the centre of the ritual.  Just be a good big brother so that the other one can be safe. That way you can help us and we can help him. I'll make sure you get the best doctors to treat that leg of yours."

"Now why would I do that?" Jonah, well Clay in Jonah's body, tried their best to sit up. This was really confusing for him now. Managing to rest his back on a stump he was able to get a tiny bit more comfortable albeit his wounds felt like they were going to burn off. "I would rather die than help you with anything." 

"The body of a powerful witch is good for the Earth ritual dead or alive, so fine have it your way. We will give you a few hours to think your choice through, given that you are still alive to tell us. Like I said, even if you are dead, your body will still do so much good."

The man patted him on the head gently. His hand felt like winter. A winter that he had never experience before, the complete opposite from the warmth Clay saw in his eyes. It wasn't frosty white winter ou celebrated Christmas with, it was one where you morn your dead and hail rains down from the sky. It was a hollow touch. 

"But just to make sure you don't go anywhere," he slammed the hand grasping the arrow down on Jonah's good leg ensuring it stuck in good and deep. More pain, but this one did not result in a yell. Clay's eyes instantly shut, propelling him out of the dream he prayed was just a dream. 

Maybe the term ghost town is more than a little marketing scheme? This is most likely the only chapter with shared points of views but I enjoyed writing it, especially since it thrust us into something a little more...dark. What the heck was that dream about though? Was it even a dream? 

Also applause to Grace for standing up for herself and Clay. <3

I hope you guys enjoy this chapter and don't forget to vote and comment some of your theories on what is happening/ going to happen in White Oak. I just imagine doing a small AU about a Teen Wolf cross over. 

Final thanks to all of you lovely people who added this look to your reading list!! You're so kind! At the point of writing this, Midnight Crow is ranked #4 in ghoststory and we are almost at 500 reads!! Once again thank you <3<3