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

It was sometime between midnight and “Lord-help-me-o’clock” when Mrs. Delphine’s polite ghost decided to take his hauntin’ up a notch. Not into the realm of frightenin’, but into that strange corner of existence reserved for things folks see only once because the good Lord knows they couldn’t handle two helpings.

It began with a whistle.

A train whistle.

But not from the tracks.

From inside the boarding house.

Mrs. Delphine, asleep beneath her quilt stitched from forty years of opinions and leftover fabric, shot upright so fast she nearly launched herself into a new denomination. She blinked into the darkness, listening.

There it was again,
soft, distant, mournful,
the kind of whistle the Seaboard engines gave when passing a lonely stretch of track at twilight.

But the nearest locomotive was miles away.

And then the house… shifted.

Not rattled, like usual, when a freight barreled through.
Not shook.
Not quivered.

It rocked.

Gently. Rhythmically.
Like a cradle.

Or more unnervingly…
like a train car.

The Bizarre Occurrence Unfolds

Mrs. Delphine marched into the hallway, nightcap tilted like a battle helmet, ready to bludgeon whatever fool had invaded her home.

But there was no fool.
Just the ghost.

He stood at the far end of the corridor, hat in hand, head bowed in that familiar, respectful way.

Except this time… he was standing on the floorboards as they moved.

The whole hallway swayed—wood creaking, pictures tilting, wallpaper peeling back like it was seasick. The house shifted left, then right, as though rolling along invisible tracks.

Mrs. Delphine gripped the wall.
“Sir,” she demanded, “what in the name of all that’s sanctified do you think you’re doin’?”

The ghost glanced up politely,
and then he raised his hand… and pulled an invisible cord.

WOOOooooOOooooo…
The whistle echoed through the entire house.

The Dixie Boarding House was, without question, pretending to be a train.

The Sensation Spreads

Windows rattled in the rhythm of wheels on rails.
Floorboards hummed like steel tracks warming under the weight.
A breeze, where no breeze should be, blew through the kitchen, scattering biscuit crumbs like confetti.

Mrs. Delphine staggered toward Room No. 3, shouting:

“STOP THIS NONSENSE, YOU HEAR ME? THIS AIN’T NO LOCOMOTIVE! THIS IS MY HOUSE!”

The ghost lowered the imaginary cord.
The house rocked once…

…twice…

…and gently settled back into stillness.

Then Came the Smoke

From the kitchen drifted a faint, unmistakable curl of coal smoke.
Not wood smoke.
Not grease smoke.
COAL.

Mrs. Delphine’s eyes widened.
“That stove is electrical,” she whispered.

The ghost nodded once,
a small, polite gesture,
and vanished into the thin air between breaths.

The Town Reacts (Badly)

By sunrise, Mrs. Delphine had marched into the Huddle House, slammed her hands on the counter, and announced:

“My house acted like a train last night.”

Coffee was spilled.
Biscuits were abandoned.
A wee little man from Anniston fainted dead away.
Sadie Mae dropped her spatula and whispered, “I knew he was railroad-affiliated.”

Within hours, Piedmont was electrified:

• Some claimed the ghost was reliving his final journey.
• Others insisted the house itself was possessed by railroad spirits.
• Clyde swore he heard the whistle from three blocks away.
• Preacher Boone asked for time to pray before making a public statement.
• The railroad men collectively declared, “Well… this changes everthang.”

And the Mystery Deepens

Whatever the ghost was before, he had now done something unmistakable:

He’d revealed a connection.

His hauntings were not random acts of tidying.
They were part of a pattern.
A message.
A route.
A timetable.

And Piedmont, Alabama, was about to find itself at the center of a ghost story that didn’t just rattle dishes…

It moved the whole damn house.

*****

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