Piedmont Porchlight Stories — Mrs. Delphine’s Dixie Boarding House
Mrs. Delphine expected another quiet night.
Or as quiet as life could be when you lived above a ghostly train schedule and a town that couldn’t keep its yap shut.
She set her teacup on the side table, picked up her crime novel, and sat in her favorite chair,
the one that had outlasted two husbands, a tornado, and several unpleasant boarders.
But before she could read a single sentence…
the house shifted.
Not rockin’ this time.
Not swayin’.
Not imitadin’ train tracks.
It tightened.
The air grew thick and humming,
the way it does when a storm is about to speak.
She set her book down.
“Oh Lord,” she whispered, “he’s up to somethin’.”
Phase One: The Lights Begin
Room No. 3 flickered first.
A soft pulse of light spilled out beneath the door.
Not bright, but steady, rhythmic, like a breath.
Then the hallway light joined it.
Then the lamp in the sitting room.
Then the kitchen bulb.
One by one, the lights in the entire Dixie Boarding House blinked in a pattern:
Three long.
Two short.
Three long.
A Morse code pattern.
Mrs. Delphine stared.
“Boy, if you’re communicatin’, you better do it clear.”
The lights blinked twice more.
Three long.
Two short.
Three long.
Her heart jumped.
“That’s… that’s SOS.”
The house held its breath.
So did she.
“Why would a ghost need help?” she whispered.
Phase Two: The Temperature Drops
Her breath fogged.
The lights dimmed.
And then…
A deep, mournful clang rang out from somewhere beneath the floorboards.
A bell.
Like a locomotive bell.
But older.
Heavier.
Worn with sorrow.
The sound passed through the house like memory rolling through bone.
Mrs. Delphine gripped her shawl tight around her shoulders.
“Child,” she whispered to the air, “what happened to you?”
Phase Three: The Ghost Appears
He materialized at the far end of the hall.
Not soft and polite this time,
but clear.
Sharp.
Outlined in the cold blue-white glow of some memory deeper than death.
His posture wasn’t bowed.
Wasn’t apologetic.
It was official.
Authoritative.
The stance of a man who once commanded attention with a whistle and a lantern.
He raised one hand.
Mrs. Delphine stepped forward.
“I’m listenin’.”
He motioned toward the back of the house.
She followed.
He gestured toward the door leading to the cellar.
Her brows rose.
“You want me to go down there?”
He inclined his head.
“By myself?”
Another nod.
“You think I’m goin’ down there by myself, you got another think comin’,” she snapped.
“You are accompanying me, and I ain’t takin’ no for an answer, ghost or no ghost.”
For the first time since she’d known him,
the ghost’s expression shifted.
He almost… smiled.
Phase Four: The Cellar
She opened the cellar door.
A cold wind rushed up as though the earth itself exhaled.
Lantern in hand, she descended slowly.
Each step groaned under her weight and echoed like a heartbeat.
Halfway down, she felt him behind her;
not touching, not looming,
just standing guard.
At the base of the stairs, she stopped dead in her tracks.
Her lantern beam fell across the dirt floor.
Revealing…
Railroad tracks.
Not full tracks…
just two rusty lengths of rail laid parallel across the dirt, no ties beneath them, aged by time.
She blinked.
“What in the name of Jehoshaphat is THIS?”
The ghost stepped past her, kneeling beside the rails.
He placed a spectral hand on one rail.
The lantern flickered.
And she saw.
In a flash of impossible, flickering memory…
a train wreck.
Not violent in a bloody way,
but in a bone-deep sorrow way.
A night.
A curve.
A lantern swung desperately.
A brakeman shouting.
A conductor yelling “All aboard” far too late.
A missed signal.
A final lurch.
A steel scream.
A conductor’s hat tumbling into the dark.
A solemn oath unkept.
A warning undelivered.
And the terrible knowledge:
Someone never got to finish his run.
The vision dissipated.
Mrs. Delphine clutched her chest.
“Oh, honey,” she said softly.
“You died on the rails.”
The ghost nodded once.
Slow.
Painfully.
“But why in my cellar?”
He pointed toward the rails again,
then toward the house overhead,
then toward her.
And then he tapped his chest.
Twice.
Tap. Tap.
Like a call.
A message.
A plea.
The Meaning Hits Her
“You’re tryin’ to finish your last route,” she whispered.
The ghost nodded.
“And you need… a passenger.”
He bowed his head as if ashamed to ask.
She steadied herself.
“Well. We’ll figure that out. But you hear me…”
She jabbed a finger at him.
“Next time you need somethin’, do NOT rock my house like a possessed Pullman car. You knock polite-like.”
The ghost straightened a crooked lantern hook on the wall in answer.
She rolled her eyes.
“Oh, don’t sass me.”
But she smiled.
He faded.
Not gone, but waiting.
And behind her, the cellar rails glowed faintly,
a promise of the journey still to come.
*****
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