A Thanksgiving Story from Unique Lighting and Home Décor
www.buttelighting.com

Prologue: The House That Waited

Between Butte and Melrose, on a stretch of land the fog never quite leaves, stood Lady Joshua’s Estate — the kind of house that looked alive even when it slept. Its black windows reflected the hills, its eaves whispered when the wind shifted.

It hadn’t burned. It hadn’t fallen.
It had simply gone quiet.

Only one light had escaped.

On Halloween night, Kel Shawnson, local lighting designer and co-owner of Shawnson & Dianalogni Lighting Design, had walked out of that house carrying a brass lantern that still glowed gold from within.

Inside its glass shimmered the faint faces of Riley, Faye, and Annetta Josephine Arikson — the family who’d moved into Lady Joshua’s Estate just weeks before.

Kel didn’t understand how the light burned without fuel or filament.
He only knew he couldn’t let it die.

Chapter One: A Light No One Could Fix

By the first snow, the lantern had become a spectacle.
Locals stood outside Kel’s Butte shop to stare at it through frosted glass. Some swore it whispered. Others said they saw movement in the glow.

Father Mikel tried prayers. “If they’re trapped, let mercy release them.” The lantern pulsed once, then steadied.

Zacharia Jennis, the electrician, brought tools. “If it’s current, I’ll trace it.” He hooked wires to the frame. The lights in the shop died instantly.

Raydeen Keldenis, the realtor who’d sold the estate, placed a candle beside it. “They just wanted to feel at home,” she whispered.

The candle’s flame flickered out — but the lantern glowed a little warmer.

Kel began to suspect it wasn’t running on power at all.
It was running on feeling.

Chapter Two: The Town That Wouldn’t Let Go

If there’s one thing Butte knows better than storms, it’s grudges.

When word spread that the Ariksons’ light was fading, everyone decided to fix it their own way — and that’s when old feuds began to resurface.

John Marnen, owner of Marnen’s Grill, leaned on the counter of Kel’s shop and declared, “That lantern’s cursed. It’s gotta be Berkley’s fault — the man’s been selling bad water for years.”

Across the street, Berkley, who ran Berkley Springs & Delivery, shouted back, “It ain’t the water, John! It’s your pork chop sandwiches clogging up heaven’s arteries!”

Their shouting rattled the glass so hard Kel thought it might crack.

Then Clark and Daly, the rival mine operators, came to gawk.
Clark muttered, “If Daly hadn’t cut corners, the town wouldn’t be cursed.”
Daly smirked. “If Clark had dug deeper, we’d have struck gold instead of ghosts.”

Even the teachers got involved: Mr. Maroon from Butte Central and Ms. Purple from Butte High. They’d been rivals for years over the Thanksgiving football game.

Maroon sniffed. “No wonder the light’s dimming — there’s too much purple spirit in the air.”
Purple smirked. “Or maybe it’s drowning in maroon pride.”

Kel groaned. “You’re all missing the point. It’s not about who’s right.”

The lantern flickered weaker, as if agreeing.

Chapter Three: The Humility of Light

That night, Raydeen stayed behind, watching the lantern tremble.
“It flares when people give,” she said. “Every time someone forgives, it shines a little brighter.”

Kel frowned. “Forgiveness? That’s a tough sell in Butte.”

“Then let’s sell it with food.”

She convinced him to host a community feast on Thanksgiving — open doors, open hearts. Everyone welcome.

“Not a sermon,” she said. “A supper.”

Chapter Four: The Feast of Thanks

The storm hit hard on Thanksgiving morning, covering the town in a white so thick it erased sound. Power went down before noon.

Only one light stayed on: the lantern in Kel’s window.

By dusk, people trudged through the snow toward it — drawn like moths to warmth.

Inside, Marnen’s Grill pork chops sizzled on cast-iron pans while Berkley’s spring water steamed into cider.
Clark and Daly stacked firewood in the corner.
Father Mikel poured wine into mismatched mugs.
And at the center table, under the Copper Hearth fixture, Raydeen set a single plate in front of the lantern.

“Everyone who’s ever fought,” she said, “say what you’re thankful for. But mean it.”

Mikel began. “I give thanks for those who challenge my faith — they teach me humility.”
The lantern brightened slightly.

John cleared his throat. “I give thanks for Berkley. His water makes my food better, even if his mouth doesn’t.”
Laughter rolled through the room. The lantern pulsed brighter.

Berkley grinned. “And I give thanks for John, because no matter how loud we argue, he always feeds me after.”
Another glow.

Clark and Daly exchanged looks, then lifted their glasses.
Clark: “I give thanks for Daly’s stubbornness — it reminds me of myself.”
Daly: “And I give thanks for Clark’s mistakes — they kept me in business.”
The light spread through the ceiling, glowing like dawn.

Then came Mr. Maroon and Ms. Purple, side by side.

Maroon sighed. “I give thanks for Purple — because losing to her every Thanksgiving reminds me that rivalry is just another kind of family.”
Purple smiled. “And I give thanks for Maroon — because without him, victory would be hollow.”

The lantern swelled until the walls themselves seemed to breathe with warmth.

Then, out of that light, three figures appeared — soft, living, trembling.

Riley. Faye. Annetta Josephine Arikson.

They looked around in wonder, bathed in golden glow.

“You brought us home,” Faye whispered.
Riley nodded. “We were never lost. We were waiting for you to remember each other.”

The light calmed to a steady hum — whole, alive.

Epilogue: The Flicker on the Hill

By December, Butte had returned to its quiet rhythm.
The Ariksons moved into a cabin near Melrose Creek.
Kel kept the lantern in his shop window — now dark, but still comforting.

Then one night, as he locked up, something caught his eye.

Far north, atop Lady Joshua’s Hill — a faint blue light shone in one of the manor’s upper windows.
Cold, unnatural, steady.

Kel turned toward the lantern. Its glass shimmered faintly in response.

A whisper rose from within — soft, but not the Ariksons’ voices:

“Gratitude wakes more than light.”

Every pendant, sconce, and bulb in the shop flickered once.
Then went black.

Only the manor’s distant blue glow remained.

A Note from Unique Lighting and Home Décor

In Montana, light is more than brightness — it’s belonging.
It’s what pulls us together when storms try to keep us apart.
And sometimes, it’s what forgives us for all the darkness we’ve carried.

This Thanksgiving, may your home’s light glow from more than electricity —
may it glow from gratitude.

🕯 www.buttelighting.com