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

If there’s anything railroad men can’t abide, it’s the notion that something strange happened beside their tracks without them knowing about it. The Seaboard line ran on timetables, tradition, and the collective stubbornness of men who treated trains like kinfolk; loud, temperamental kinfolk who weighed 200 tons and refused to stop for anybody’s nonsense.

So, when word reached the depot, traveling in the mysterious way news always did, without ever using the front door, that a ghost had taken up residence at Mrs. Delphine’s Dixie Boarding House, the men reacted with the seriousness of surgeons and the enthusiasm of gossiping hens.

The Morning Express Crew Gets the First Whiff

It was Cap’n Leland Potts, engineer of the 6:03 morning express, who heard it first. Sadie Mae had slipped the rumor into his hand along with his takeout coffee.

“Hauntin’?” he repeated, adjusting his overalls. “In Delphine’s place?”

“That’s what they’re sayin’,” Sadie Mae whispered, leaning in like she was revealing government secrets or the recipe to perfect cornbread crust.

Cap’n Potts frowned.
“Was it noisy?”

“Noisy?” Sadie Mae blinked. “No. Polite.”

The engineer stared at her, genuinely distressed.
“Well that ain’t right. A ghost’s supposed to be rattlin’ chains or draggin’ iron. What kinda specter is courteous?”

The brakeman, Virgil Capps, narrow as a fencepost and twice as creaky, leaned over and whispered:

“Heard he straightens biscuits.”

Potts nearly spilled his coffee.
“What in the thunder kind of hauntin’ is that?”

They boarded their engine unsettled, muttering the whole climb into the cab.

By the time their train passed the Dixie Boarding House, all three men were hanging out the windows like dogs on a joy ride, hoping to catch a glimpse of something spectral.

Virgil swore he saw the curtain in Room No. 3 move.
Potts swore he didn’t.
The fireman, Hank Bailey, swore both of them needed spectacles.

At the Yard Office, Things Escalate

Railroad men talk in clusters, small, smoky huddles where every opinion comes with a story attached.

By noon, the ghost had become:

• A former conductor from Savannah
• A brakeman who died from “too much responsibility”
• A lost passenger whose spirit never got his refund
• A ticket agent who refused to retire even after the Lord called his number

Ol’ Mr. Buford Cray, who had worked the tracks since Hoover was president, listened to the talk and finally declared:

“I ain’t scared of no ghost unless he carries a lantern. Lantern ghosts are bad news. Means they’re lookin’ for somethin’.”

This instantly elevated the ghost’s danger rating by three notches and gave half the crew indigestion.

The Switchmen Develop a Theory

That evenin’, while the trains shuffled and clanked like restless giants, the switchmen gathered near the signal box.

Ellis “Fiddlestick” McGraw, named so for reasons no one could recall, spoke first.

“Boys, I figure the ghost was a railroad man. Has to be.”

“Why’s that?” asked Lester.

“Because,” Fiddlestick announced, drawing out the moment like the world’s slowest magician, “ain’t nobody but a railroad man would bother to tidy up another man’s space.”

This logic, baffling as it was, satisfied everyone present.

Lester chewed on that a moment.

“So, he’s dead,” he said, “but still on duty?”

“Looks that way,” Fiddlestick replied grimly. “Which means one o’ two things. Either he’s waitin’ for his final train…”

He paused dramatically. The men leaned in.

“…or he’s waitin’ for us.”

A collective shudder passed through the group like cold wind through a cornfield.

A Lantern Light Seen at the Wrong Hour

Just after dusk, the 7:49 freight rumbled in, brakes squealing, metal hissing like a nest of irritated snakes. The crew hopped off, ready for pork chops and peace.

That’s when Hank Bailey froze.

“Boys…” he whispered, pointing toward the Dixie Boarding House.

A faint light glowed in the upstairs window, like a lantern swinging gently from an unseen hand.

“It’s him,” Virgil breathed. “It’s the ghost.”

Potts shook his head.
“That ain’t her lamp. Delphine don’t use kerosene upstairs.”

The lantern flickered once.

Twice.

Then… it dipped, like a nod.

Every railroad man on the platform stepped back in perfect, terrified unison.

“That,” Fiddlestick said, voice trembling, “was a conductor’s salute.”

And with that, the mystery passed from rumor to full-fledged railroad lore.

*****

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