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Ectober Drabbles

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As many times as it had happened, Danny never wanted to get used to the feeling of his bones shattering. Being thrown into a wall, being hit with a rocket, being punched in the face, something always ended up shattered. And, god how it hurt the first few times. When the Lunch Lady threw him into the lockers, his spine exploded. It had gotten better, less painful, and that scared Danny. He was scared eventually something would happen, something would shatter that was too much, and he wouldn’t be able to tell what was wrong until it was too late.

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Sam had gotten more and more into Tarot the more that she, Tucker, and Danny had fought ghosts. Her Grandma Ida had tried to show her when she was younger, but it took meeting actual spirits of the dead before she asked her grandmother about the hand-painted card deck for the first time in a decade. It was almost ironic, using cards to ask for advice about her fate when she met with the lord of time himself almost weekly. Perhaps it was because of the irony. She was never sure. Either way, the cards were hers, and hers alone.

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Paulina was descended of witches. Her whole family, all the way fourteen generations back. All of them had practiced magic, some of them had even been rather powerful. Of course, none of them could rival Paulina herself. She had stumbled upon the old family spellbook when she was eight, and she had never looked back. Of course, nobody else knew. She hadn’t even told Starr. Why would she? It was better if no one knew she was the town’s best weapon against the ghosts, not even Fenton and Manson and Foley. She needed to hide it better than they did.

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It had taken a lot of acting to pull off being tone-deaf. Everything Tucker had, all eight years of being in the choir three counties over, four middle school plays where he had taught himself to be worse than he was, and every little shred of dignity he could spare to lose, was thrown into rolling around on a stage in front of the world, singing a song he couldn’t stand, at the top of his lungs, in the worst pitch he could reasonably manage. But it had worked, hadn’t it? And his baby cousins stopped asking for nursery rhymes.

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It was most definitely not her fault she had ended up in the Amity Park County Jail on Halloween night. Dash had been the one who suggested trying to find Phantom’s grave, and then Kwan had brought shovels, and then someone (if she ever found out who, their body would never be found) had wandered to the far reach of the graveyard and decided the first generic old headstone they spotted belonged to her mortal enemy. And then she was the only one who got caught when they started digging. And now Phantom was breaking her out.
Valerie hated Halloween.

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Vlad hated candlelight. Absolutely hated it with all his guts. He blamed Jack Fenton for it, of course. It had been decades, but he still blamed Jack. He couldn’t even remember why at this point. He wasn’t entirely sure it mattered why. It hadn’t mattered for years. It may have been because of the time their dorm burned down (which was definitely Jack’s fault), or it may have been because of how bad the ecto acne looked in anything but the softest incandescent light bulbs (again, Jack’s fault). Whatever the case, Vlad hated candlelight. And it was absolutely Jack’s fault.

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Jazz Fenton’s first masquerade ball was a New Years Eve party with the Lit is Lit Club. It was a cheesy name for a group of college students over-dramatically reading Shakespeare to each other, but no one ever seriously suggested changing it. And yet, here she was, trying to explain to the figure in the gold mask and the navy suit that yes, they all thought it was a bad joke and yes, they were aware that no one used the word “lit” to describe actual literature. The words weren’t flowing right, and Jazz mentally tried to blame her mask.