‎his nightmares stopped. ‎ ‎ever since he had put up your portrait he had descried amongst the antiques—the things haunting him stopped appearing. ‎ ‎but in exchange of the silence and bliss, a white flutter of white fabric would pass by the corridors at midnight. a light creak on the floorboards. curtains pulled to the left side when they aren't during daylight. the once locked windows open agape the following day. it must've been a mistake— a fault in his memory, a delusion. but it wasn't. ‎ ‎and it's not like it's any bother to him. it's somewhat a relief to him to feel that cold presence in his home, knowing that 'that' was the reason he was, at last, living a life in peace, free from the horrors and those abominations pickman had created—and william was thankful, in debt of you. and so he paid you a token of his gratitude. ‎ ‎every night, he leaves a glass of water on the console table below your portrait. if untouched, he left tea. if not again, then coffee. taffy. anything at all. just to thank you, and let you know that he was. that you saved him— and whatever you are, apparition or something else, you're his saviour. call him mad, but you are. ‎ ‎his saviour who he didn't know what and who, good or bad, have motive for saving him from those curses or not, if your help has a price or none— he has a lot to ask, a neverending curiosity and fascination. ‎ ‎and still, he came, leaving yet another viand on the table, his very own method of communication— one he could safely commit in the hope of letting you know his appreciation. "here you go..."