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

It is a truth widely known in Piedmont that nothing good ever happens after 11 p.m. Not a single respectable event has been documented between those hours and sunrise, except the birth of one child who grew up to be a tax collector, proving the rule rather than breaking it.

But Mr. Alphonse Truman—a traveling salesman specializing in vacuum cleaners, self-help pamphlets, and unfulfilled promises—did not know this truth. He arrived at Mrs. Delphine’s just as the 9:14 freight roared by, rattling his nerves and loosening his hatband.

Mrs. Delphine assigned him Room No. 3, which was known for two things:

1. A view of the railroad tracks
2. A spiritual occupancy rate that technically exceeded the building’s fire code

Truman, blissfully ignorant of both, unpacked his little brown suitcase and laid out his belongings with the meticulous care of a man who had been raised by stern aunties.

At 11:22 p.m., after a supper heavy enough to anchor a dirigible, he drifted into bed. At 12:07, he woke to the unmistakable feeling that someone else was in the room with him.

At first, he thought it was indigestion.
Then he thought it was regret.
Only after eliminating both did he open his eyes.

There, in the faint glow cast by the streetlamp outside, stood the ghost.

Not hovering.
Not shimmering.
Just standing.
As like as if he was waiting for Truman to finish dreaming.

The apparition held his hat respectfully to his chest, head slightly bowed, as if caught intruding and properly ashamed of it.

Truman’s first instinct was to scream. His second was to negotiate.

“H-hello?” he whispered, clinging to the bedsheet like a life preserver.

The ghost tipped an invisible hat brim.

“Are… are you here for me?” Truman croaked.

The ghost shook his head, a gentle, patient gesture, like a schoolteacher correcting a simple arithmetic mistake.

Truman swallowed. “Are you… lost?”

A tilt of the head.
A pause.
Then the ghost shrugged. It was a polite, apologetic sort of shrug, the kind a man uses when he’s in your way in the grocery aisle and can’t decide whether to move left or right.

Truman, who was a polite man even in the face of terror, attempted small talk.

“Is there… uh… something you need?”

The ghost turned toward the nightstand. He lifted nothing, because nothing could be lifted, but he clearly mimed straightening the Gideon Bible, aligning its corners just so.

Then he gently adjusted the lamp pull chain, ensuring it hung at a uniform length.

Truman blinked.
The ghost nodded, satisfied.
Then he stepped back, tipping his hat in a courtly farewell, and walked straight through the closed door without so much as rattling the knob.

Truman sat motionless for three full minutes.
Then he rose, tested the solidity of the door, and whispered to the still air:

“Well… he’s tidier than most sales reps I’ve trained.”

By breakfast time, Truman’s tale had made the rounds of Center Avenue twice, grown an inch, and put on a little weight.

He sat at the table, tremblin’ lightly, trying to butter a biscuit that did not wish to be involved.

Mrs. Delphine poured his coffee.

“So,” she said, entirely too casual, “you met him.”

Truman blinked. “You knew! Ma’am, I must say, this is highly irregular.”

Mrs. Delphine sniffed. “What’s irregular is a grown man hollerin’ at midnight over a little housekeeping.”

Truman opened his mouth, closed it, and then, because politeness was contagious, simply nodded.

“Well,” he said, “he was very neat.”

Mrs. Delphine’s face softened for the briefest flicker.
“He’s got good manners, that one.”

And with that, she walked away, leaving Mr. Truman wondering if courtesy was contagious between the living and the dead.

*****

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