Piedmont Porchlight Stories — Mrs. Delphine’s Dixie Boarding House
Mrs. Delphine did not fear death, ghosts, foolish men, or even a faulty pressure cooker,
but she had developed a powerful aggravation toward the mysterious, biscuit-straightenin’, house-rockin’ spirit who’d taken up residence in her establishment.
It was nearly midnight when she planted herself at the end of the upstairs hallway, lantern in one hand, hair pinned into a tight, battle-ready knot.
“Alright now,” she announced to the empty corridor, “you show yourself. I ain’t playin’ peek-a-boo with a dead man.”
The hallway stayed silent just long enough for her irritation to become personal.
Then—
a flicker.
A shimmer of gentleman-shaped air.
And there he was:
the polite ghost, hat in hand, expression soft and apologetic,
the supernatural equivalent of saying, “Yes ma’am, I heard every word.”
Mrs. Delphine Doesn’t Hold Back
She strode toward him like a woman stormin’ the gates of her own patience.
“Sir,” she began, “I ain’t askin’ again. You got some explainin’ to do. Why was my house rockin’ like a Seaboard boxcar tryin’ to pass its physical?”
The ghost bowed his head slightly, the way a man might if caught borrowin’ something he didn’t own.
“Oh, don’t you bow at me,” she scolded.
“I want answers, not courtesy.”
He looked up.
She crossed her arms.
“And what is all this about coal smoke in my kitchen? I ain’t lit so much as a pilot light since Tuesday.”
The ghost lifted two fingers, miming a tiny pinch,
a gesture that somehow conveyed, “Just a little.”
“A little?” she barked.
“You manifested coal smoke, sir! Do you know what that does to curtains? And another thing, what in tarnation possessed you to move my cookie tin? That tin don’t walk!”
The ghost pointed politely to himself.
“No. No, sir. You calm down. You do not get to be smug.”
The Discussion Becomes a Negotiation
She planted a finger an inch from his incorporeal chest.
“I have put up with:
- your biscuit rearrangin’,
- your Bible straightenin’,
- your lamp-chain alignin’,
- your habit of draftin’ lantern salutes at all hours,
- your polite hauntin’s,
- and your ungodly ability to make every room smell like freshly sanded pine.
But I draw the line, sir, at locomotive behavior inside my house.”
The ghost made a small, circular motion with his hand,
a gesture that translated to:
I meant no harm.
“I know you meant no harm,” she huffed. “But the railroad men think my house is fixin’ to get up and trot to Chattanooga!”
The ghost winced;
an expression of supernatural embarrassment.
“So then.” She softened, just a fraction.
“What are you tryin’ to do? What’s all this for?”
The Ghost Tries to Answer
And then it happened.
The politeness faded.
Not entirely, but enough for the ghost to stand a little straighter.
Enough for his form to sharpen along the edges.
Enough for the air around him to grow colder; not frightening cold, but memory-cold.
He raised a hand.
Not to salute.
Not to tidy anything.
To gesture.
Slowly, deliberately, he pointed toward Room No. 3.
Mrs. Delphine followed his finger.
“That room?” she asked.
“That’s where Mr. Truman saw you. That’s where you were the first night.”
The ghost nodded.
He pointed again;
this time toward the back door of the kitchen, the place where he’d left the glove print.
Then toward the small soot circle.
Then toward the hall.
Then he touched two fingers to his chest.
And then,
he tapped the wall twice.
Tap. Tap.
Like a conductor signaling time.
Mrs. Delphine stared.
“You’re… followin’ a schedule?” she ventured.
The ghost dipped his chin.
“A timetable?”
Another nod.
“And you ain’t done yet.”
The ghost stood straighter.
Hat pressed to his chest.
Posture firm and purposeful,
not merely haunting…
Working.
Suddenly, the hallway seemed narrower.
Quieter.
Filled with the sense of a story not yet told.
Mrs. Delphine Softens
“Well,” she whispered, “why didn’t you just say so?”
The ghost gave her a look that said plainly:
Ma’am, talkin’ ain’t exactly an option.
She sighed, overwhelmed but steady.
“Alright,” she said. “I’ll help you. But stop rockin’ my house without warnin’. I’m senstive to motion.”
The ghost nodded gratefully.
Then, in a tiny act of rebellion or humor,
he straightened the crooked picture frame behind her before fading away.
“I saw that,” she muttered.
But the corner of her mouth twitched.
As She Headed Down the Stairs…
A thought struck her so hard she grabbed the railing.
“A timetable,” she whispered.
“A route.
“A purpose.”
She turned back toward the empty hall.
“Oh, sir,” she murmured, “what journey you tryin’ to finish?”
The only answer was a faint scent of coal smoke…
and the softest echo of a conductor’s call.
*****
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