Piedmont Porchlight Stories — Mrs. Delphine’s Dixie Boarding House

If there was one thing certain in Piedmont, Alabama, it was this: no ghost ever got to haunt a house in peace.

The morning after the phantom made his courteous debut in Mrs. Delphine’s hallway, the sun wasn’t even up before the rumors were. They were spotted galloping down Center Avenue like wild ponies, kicking up dust, ignoring fences, and stopping at every screen door to say howdy.

Sadie Mae Spreads the First Spark

Sadie Mae, coffee slinger, confidante, and unofficial mayor of morning gossip, was the first to light the lantern.

“Now, I ain’t sayin’ it was a ghost,” she told Owen as he unfolded his napkin at the Huddle House counter, “but I am sayin’ it smelled like cedar and regrets.”

Owen, a man whose eyebrows had seen more action than most full-body expressions, gave a slow nod.
“Regrets, you say?”
“I surely do,” she answered. “The kind menfolk carry from a life of poor decisions and unbalanced checkbooks.”

Before Owen could argue, Clyde from the hardware store slid into the next stool, pointed a syrup-dripping fork for emphasis, and declared:

“That ghost ain’t no sinner. He’s a railroad man. I can smell locomotive soot from fifty paces. And I’d stake my reputation, what’s left of it, that the spirit’s waitin’ on a train that ain’t comin’.”

Owen snorted so hard he nearly inhaled his biscuit.
“Clyde, the only thing you can smell from fifty paces is your own opinions.”
Sadie Mae swatted both of them with her dish towel and moved on.

By 8:15 that morning, the story had grown legs, borrowed a hat, and was hitchhiking across town.

The Barber Shop Caucus Convened

The barbershop, located just a few doors down from the tracks, closer to the Southern Railroad, became the scene of the first official Ghost Council Meeting; a gathering of experts qualified solely by their willingness to speak loudly and with conviction.

Huey Parris, scissors poised like he was operating on a politician, announced:

“That ghost is a leftover Confederate soldier, mark my words. The good ones never left home. They just… lightened up.”

Curtis Pope countered with a snort sharp enough to shave a man.
“Huey, if you don’t stop blamin’ every odd thing on the Confederacy, I swear I’m gonna move in with my sister in Gadsden.”

From his chair, old Mr. Becker added,
“I heard tell the ghost rearranged Mrs. Delphine’s biscuits. That don’t sound like no soldier. That sounds like a husband.”

This statement was met with a long, tragic silence from the married men in attendance.

The Baptist Speculation Committee

By noon, the Baptist Ladies’ Luncheon Circle met to decide whether the ghost was an omen, a warning, or a divine hint that Mrs. Delphine needed to dust more thoroughly.

Miss Roberta Mae declared, “Ghosts are simply angels who missed rehearsal.”

Mrs. Flossie, who had the spiritual confidence of a woman who always won the church raffle, replied, “If it’s an angel, he surely ain’t no Baptist angel. Ain’t a Baptist angel in the world that would rearrange food without permission.”

Meanwhile, Preacher Boone listened from the end of the table, sipping sweet tea in deep theological turmoil. Every few minutes, he sighed as though carrying the burden of both souls and supper rolls.

A Rumor Reaches the Schoolhouse

Children, as always, handled the matter with more imagination and less restraint.

By recess, the ghost had evolved into:

• A pirate
• A Civil War drummer boy
• Three men standing on each other’s shoulders in a trench coat
• Elvis, experimenting with invisibility

One boy claimed he’d seen the ghost “hoverin’ over the monkey bars like a confused balloon.”
No one questioned him, for he sounded sincere, and children respect sincerity above logic.

And Finally, Mrs. Delphine Herself

Late that afternoon, while the town continued its cyclone of speculation, Mrs. Delphine stood on her deep wraparound porch. Her apron flapped in the breeze, the Seaboard rails humming softly behind her as a distant train approached.

She simply crossed her arms and declared to nobody in particular:

“Let ’em talk. A polite ghost is rarer than a quiet politician. Far as I’m concerned, he can stay.”

And with that, she went back inside to straighten the biscuit stack the ghost had already tidied to perfection.

*****

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