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

By the following night, the railroad men were wound up tighter than a banjo string. Every tale they’d told all day had gotten taller, and every description of the ghost had become more elaborate, until one version included spurs, glowing shoes, and a faint whistling of “Dixie.”

Finally, Cap’n Leland Potts slapped his palm on the depot counter and declared:

“Alright, boys. Enough jawin’. We’re goin’ over there.”

You could’ve heard a whisker fall on a biscuit.

Virgil Capps blinked. “Over where?”

Potts jerked a thumb toward the shadowy boarding house crouched beside the Seaboard rails.

“Over there, Virgil. If a ghost is salutin’ us with lanterns and tidyin’ up rooms, we owe him a proper inspection.”

Now, in railroad culture, a “proper inspection” can mean anything from checking brake hoses to poking suspicious objects with sticks of questionable sturdiness. But in this case, it meant walking straight into the Dixie Boarding House with no plan, no permission, and no sense.

Preparing for the Expedition (Badly)

Hank Bailey arrived first, carrying:

• A lantern
• A whistle
• A New Testament
• And a frying pan, “just in case truth requires skillet persuasion”

Virgil brought a camera so old it needed a revival tent to work properly.

Fiddlestick McGraw brought nothing but nerves and a rope “for tying up supernatural varmints.”

Cap’n Potts, the unofficial commander, carried the only useful item:
a thermos of Sadie Mae’s extra-strong coffee, which was known to resuscitate both men and machinery.

At 9:02 p.m., they crossed the tracks like a band of ill-prepared explorers approaching a legendary jungle temple.

Mrs. Delphine Answers the Door

Knock-knock-knock.

Mrs. Delphine opened the door, apron and all, eyebrows sharpened like two judgmental knives.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” she asked, with suspicion thick enough to spread on toast.

Cap’n Potts cleared his throat.
“Ma’am, we’re here on official railroad business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Ghost business.”

Mrs. Delphine sighed deep enough to lower the humidity.

“You want Room No. 3, don’t you?”

Potts nodded.

She stepped aside. “Fine. But, wipe your feet! I promise that any of you that tracks in mud, will get a chance to do some hauntin’ of their own!”

They filed in, hats clasped nervously, the lantern shaking in Hank’s trembling hand.

Inside the Haunted Hallway

The upstairs corridor was dim, dusty, and smelled faintly of old cedar and coal smoke; the exact details Sadie Mae had sworn to.

“Alright, boys,” Potts whispered, “stay alert.”

Virgil took a photo. The flash was so bright that everyone screamed.

“Sorry,” he muttered, “thought I saw somethin’.”

“What?” hissed the others.

“A coat peg.”

Potts exhaled. “For the love of steam engines…”

Room No. 3

They reached the infamous door.
Hank’s lantern flickered in a way that did not inspire confidence.

Potts opened the door with all the bravery of a man expecting to see either a ghost… or Mrs. Delphine’s biscuit stacks.

Inside, all was still.

The bed was neatly made.
The Bible was perfectly aligned.
The lamp chain hung straight as a moral lesson.

Fiddlestick whispered, “He was tidyin’ again… I can feel it.”

Virgil’s camera shook in his hands.
“I… I smell pipe smoke.”

Hank sniffed deeply.
“I smell somethin’ else.”

“What is it?”

“A ghostly presence?”

“No,” Hank said grimly. “It’s regret. That supper ain’t sittin’ right.”

Potts ignored all of them and stepped further in.

He checked:

• Under the bed
• Behind the curtain
• Inside the wardrobe

He even tapped the walls, in case ghosts hid like raccoons.

Nothing.

But then…

The Lantern Incident

Hank’s lantern suddenly flared bright, then dimmed to a soft glow. Slow, warm, deliberate, as if an unseen hand had cupped it gently.

Every man froze.

“Who’s doin’ that?” Virgil whispered.

“Nobody’s touchin’ it!” squeaked Fiddlestick.

Potts, to his credit, stood his ground.
“Hank, hold it steady.”

“I… I ain’t holdin’ nothin’! My hands are shakin’ like a Baptist with secrets!”

The lantern glowed again.
Then dimmed.
Like a nod.
Exactly like the salute they’d seen from the track.

Potts swallowed hard.

“Boys,” he whispered, “we just got acknowledged.”

Fiddlestick dropped his rope.
Virgil dropped his camera.
Hank dropped to prayer.

Potts placed his hand over his heart and whispered back into the empty room:

“Sir… we’re honored.”

The lantern flickered once.

Twice.

Then steadied.

The Retreat

They backed out of that room with the reverence of deacons leaving the altar… and the speed of cowards leaving a haunted barn.

Mrs. Delphine met them at the bottom of the stairs.

“Well?” she asked.

Cap’n Potts cleared his throat; hat pressed to his chest.

“Ma’am… I believe your ghost has seniority.”

She smirked.
“I could’ve told you that.”

And with that, the railroad men returned to the depot to prepare an official statement for the coming town meeting. A statement that would include lots of important-sounding vagueness and the phrase:

“As far as hauntings go, this one is unusually professional.”

*****

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