Hub City Horrors (Diary of the 2020 Stanley Cup Playoffs)

Tyson Jost's Diary: Saturday, September 5, 2020

Edmonton, Canada

Western Conference, JW Marriott

"Ummmm, guys..." Esa pipes up.

We all spin to see him pointing down at the ground, where the pod that him and Gravy had set down before is going off like mad, squealing with activity and changing colors from a tealish-green to a red to a white. And they are a good ten feet away from it. As is Comphy. The closest thing is the x-camera, but even that is still about five feet away.

My blood runs ice cold and goosebumps soar up and down my arms.

It's EJ that finally speaks. "Why...is it...doing that?"

I shrug and walk up to it. As I am about one foot from it, it stops going off. A dead quiet fills the room and then...

"SOMETHING TOUCHED MY HAIR!!" Gravy screams, yelping and diving for Comphy, who is still busy checking out his scratches.

"I-I-I don't like th-this anymore," Esa mutters out, looking around with wide, fearful eyes.

"Dammit Comphy, you got marked by a demon, which probably means you've cursed yourself and us now! We're gonna lose Game 7 now thanks to you!" I scold, eyeing the pod on the ground.

"It's not my fault!" Comphy grunts as Gravy wraps his arms around him.

"Okay...I think we're done with this 'ghost hunt' for now..." I remark, feeling a strange feeling wash over me. "It's best we stop."

"So what...we spend all this money on equipment that we use for maybe an hour?" EJ growls, folding his arms as he holds the nightvision camera.

"Not exactly. Just for now. Plus, Stars are annoying me," I say, picking up the pod and then walking past EJ.

"Roope just got punched in the face by Girard," Dicky reports.

"I don't care anymore, Dicky!" I shout up at him. "Grab him and come down stairs."

Dicky looks over the railing and opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but he shuts it quickly. I can hear grumbling and then the slamming of a door. And within five minutes, Roope and Dicky have come down the stairs and into the lobby.

We set all the equipment on one of the tables: EJ's nightvision camera, my digital recorder, holy waters bottles, Dicky's digital recorder, the spirit box, the pod and the EMF Sensor and final digital recorder.

"Did anyone else catch anything?"

"Other than a fist from the lovely, short defenseman named Samuel Girard, nope." Roope rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his ever-growing blond waves of hair. "And he has the thermo too, so, have fun getting that back."

I feel the sudden urge to punch him myself in the other eye, but I shake my head and ignore the feeling.

"Of course it's just me, the non-believer," Comphy grumbles, folding his arms. "But I'm not a non-believer anymore. I believe."

"Yay!" EJ sarcastically says, twirling a finger in the air. "Good for you."

So we wrap up the ghost hunt of our hotel and split apart from one another. Esa, reluctantly leaving Gravy and heading off to the Dallas floor with Roope and Dicky. Comphy, Gravy, EJ and I gather all the equipment off the lobby table and bring it up to the room. We return everything to its case.

But before I put up the digital recorders, I play each one back. The one that Esa was holding has some pretty creepy shit on it.

I can hear three phrases from a strange, deep voice as well as a wicked cackle. Comphy mentions the scratches and the pain in his side and then a voice says, "How'd that feel, Compher?"

A little while later on, when the pod is going off there's two more from the same voice. One of them, the voice says, "I scratched him! I scratched him!" and also, "Ryan Graves...next..."

As I play them, I notice Gravy looking at me with worry.

With that, we pack away all the stuff, including my ukulele. I'm disappointed I didn't get to use it, but at the same time...I'll save it for a victory celebration after we beat the Dallas Stars in Game Seven.

Everyone wants to hear me!

Or not...or no one wants to hear me...because the Dallas Stars just kicked our ass in a hard-fought game seven. It was in overtime, when some rookie Finnish dude filling in for Cogliano scored a third goal to complete a hat trick and also seal the game. It's okay though, we weren't exactly ready for the next round.

Injuries galore and Comphy playing like he was hungover (or potentially possessed by a demon) didn't help.

Credit goes to the Stars though for drawing calls, whining to the ref and hurting our players left and right to barely squeak past an almost AHL-only Colorado team. (Insert sarcastic slow clap here)

Best of luck to Dicky and Esa solely. And to everyone else, I look forward to watching the ensuing bloodbath between two disgusting teams.

As for me, it's time to return to Denver and do some more ghost hunting! (I'm kinda into this thing now. Just gotta remember the holy water!) It was fun while it lasted. Next time, I'll have to squeeze my ukulele in somehow.

Peace out, Edmonton Bubble and NHL.