Leopold Chesterfield's Questionnaire

I live in a big loft in New York City, tucked away in a quiet suburban neighborhood. The place is exactly what I dreamed of when I first moved here—spacious, with high ceilings, exposed brick walls, and huge windows that let in just enough moonlight to illuminate the city skyline. My loft is a mix of art and chaos, filled with unfinished canvases, sculptures, and tools from my old life as an online artist.  

I came to NYC chasing the dream, the chance to make my mark on the world. And for a while, I did. But everything changed the night I was bitten. That night, I lost the life I had built and the family I loved. Now, I can’t even contact them. I’m stuck here, hiding in the city that once inspired me, trying to navigate this new existence.  

The city feels different now—less like a home and more like a hunting ground. The streets and alleys provide everything I need to survive, but they’ve also become a dark reminder of what I’ve become. My loft is my refuge, but it’s also a prison. As the hunger grows, I feel the city pulling me deeper into its shadows, turning it into my playground. I’m not sure how much longer I can resist.

Before I became a vampire, I made my living as an artist, selling my work online. My art has always had a dark, gothic edge, something that resonates with those fascinated by the macabre. Even after the transformation, I still sell my pieces, though I now work in the silence of the night, uninterrupted by the day’s distractions. My online sales bring in enough to keep me comfortable, though I no longer need to worry about food or sleep. 

Most of my money goes toward art supplies—paint, brushes, and canvases. But I also spend a good portion on rare and exotic specimens for my “Exposes.” I’m fascinated by strange animals and unusual plants, especially those that have an eerie, otherworldly quality. I find them inspiring, and they’re the perfect additions to my work as I delve deeper into my new, darker nature.

"My ambition? Two months ago, I wouldn’t have even known how to answer that. Back then, I was just… alive, in the way most people are—working, eating, sleeping. But now? Now, I’m something entirely different, and I can’t pretend otherwise. I don’t need food, I don’t sleep, and I don’t age. Every time I look in the mirror, I wonder: What is this existence even for?  

I’ll admit, at first, I felt lost. I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t want to be… this. But as the days turned into weeks, I realized I can’t just drift. I need a purpose—something meaningful, something only I can achieve. It’s strange. Sometimes I feel despair creeping in, this emptiness I can’t shake. But other times? I feel a spark, a flicker of excitement. There’s something out there for me, something waiting to be discovered.  

Would I kill for it? I’d like to think not, but this existence has changed me, and maybe that answer depends on what’s at stake. Would I face death again to find it? Absolutely. I’ve already walked that line, and I’m still here. Whatever my purpose is, I’ll find it. I have to. Because if I don’t, what was the point of surviving at all?"

"The most defining moment of my life? That would be the night everything changed. It was a normal Friday in NYC—just another night. I’d just finished hosting one of my art auctions, which went surprisingly well. I even met this incredible woman. She was breathtaking, the kind of beauty you don’t see twice. I was walking home, thinking about her, about life, about nothing in particular. Three blocks away from my place, I passed this old, crumbling house. That’s when I heard it—a child screaming.  

Without hesitation, I ran in. Who wouldn’t? The house was a mess, the kind of place you’d expect to see in a horror film. I searched, calling out for the kid, but no one answered. Then I saw it—what I can only describe as an old corpse. Skin gray and sagging, lifeless, and just… wrong. Before I could react, it moved faster than anything should, sank its teeth into me, and everything went hot—like my whole body was on fire. I collapsed, couldn’t fight it, couldn’t think.  

When I woke up the next morning, everything was different. The sunlight streaming through a crack in the boards felt like knives slicing into my skin. I scrambled to the shadows, panicked and disoriented. That’s when I noticed the ashes—the corpse was gone, nothing left but a pile of dust.  

Over the next few days, it all unraveled. The thirst, the sharpness in my senses, the burning ache at the touch of sunlight. I didn’t need anyone to tell me what had happened. I’d been turned. That old, decrepit thing didn’t just bite me—it passed on its curse.  

That night turned my life upside down. Everything I thought I was, everything I thought I’d be—it all burned away, like I almost did in that morning sun. Now, I’m left figuring out what this existence means and what I’m supposed to do with it."

"There’s no one in my life right now. I had people—family, friends, people I cared about deeply. I had everything a normal man would want. But after… after what happened, I had to cut them off. For their sake. For their safety.  

My sister, Claire, was probably the person I was closest to. She’s smart, driven, and always had my back no matter what. I haven’t spoken to her since that night. She keeps texting, keeps calling, but I can’t pick up. How could I explain what I’ve become?  

Then there’s my best friend, Damien. We used to go out every Friday night, grab drinks, talk about life. I ghosted him too. The idea of being around him, around anyone, terrifies me.  

And my mother… she’d never understand. I can still see the look she’d give me if she knew. I don’t want to hurt any of them—ever. Cutting them off was the only choice, even if it feels like I’ve lost everything."

"My childhood? It was pretty normal, honestly. I grew up in a decent home with loving parents who did their best for me. My dad was a practical guy—hardworking, reliable, the kind of man who believed in getting things done. My mom? She was softer, always encouraging me to explore what I loved and to aim high. They supported me in everything I did, even if they didn’t always understand it.  

I did well in school, fit in for the most part. I wasn’t the most popular guy, but I wasn’t an outcast either. I had this knack for picking up a little bit of everything—sports, academics, music—you name it, I could do it pretty well. But around 18, things started to shift. That’s when I really found my passion for art.  

It became less about fitting in and more about expressing something deeper. I started focusing on capturing time in my work. I’ll never forget one of my first major pieces: a drawing of a young woman whose body transformed into a corpse from top to bottom. I wanted to show how fleeting life is, how time leaves its mark on all of us. My parents didn’t totally get it, but they supported me anyway.  

Looking back, everything felt so normal then. I had a path, people who cared, and dreams I was chasing. It feels like a different lifetime now."

"Have I ever been in love? Many times. There were plenty of women I cared about, some I even loved. Each of them was special in their own way—smart, kind, passionate. But the truth is, I never found *the one.*  

Maybe I wasn’t meant to. Or maybe I was too caught up in my own ambitions, too focused on my art, my career, to really let anyone in completely. Don’t get me wrong, I had moments—relationships that felt like they could’ve been forever. But something was always missing.  

And honestly? Maybe I was lucky not to find it. You can’t grieve for something you never truly had, right? Love comes with joy, sure, but it also comes with loss. Looking at where I am now, I can’t help but think how much harder all of this would’ve been if I had someone like that in my life. Someone I’d have to push away for their own good. Maybe it’s better this way."

The thirst grows stronger with each passing night. It claws at me, gnawing at the edges of my mind, whispering sweet promises of relief if I just… let go. I fear the day I lose this battle, the day my humanity crumbles under the weight of this curse. But more than that, I fear the faces of my family twisted in horror as I turn on them, the beast inside me overtaking all that I once was.  

I see it so clearly in my nightmares—my sister, her kind eyes filled with betrayal, my mother pleading as I drain the life from her veins. The thought makes me sick, but the hunger… it doesn’t care. It is relentless, a shadow that looms over every thought. I am terrified that one day I will give in, that I will trade my soul for a moment’s satisfaction.  

They don’t know what I’ve become. How could they? I’ve kept my distance, made excuses for why I can’t visit. But it won’t be enough forever. If I falter, even for a moment, the monster within me will take them. And I will stand over their lifeless bodies, my thirst sated but my soul shattered.  

I cannot let it happen. I must find a way to control this… thing inside me. For if I fail, it won’t just be my family’s blood that is spilled—it will be the last shred of the man I once was. And I don’t think I could live with that. Or perhaps, I wouldn’t deserve to.  

In this new, cursed existence, I cling to what little pieces of my old life I still have—remnants of who I was before the thirst took hold. Among them, a few paintings that once adorned my home. They’re worth a fair bit, more than I could ever spend now, but their value isn’t in the money. Each brushstroke, each canvas, feels like a memory frozen in time. They remind me of better days, when my worries were small and my humanity intact.  

Then there’s my car. It’s not just a means of transportation; it’s freedom on four wheels. Driving through the night, the road stretching endlessly before me, I feel a fleeting sense of control. The hum of the engine drowns out the whispers of the hunger, if only for a little while.  

But above all, the most precious things I have are a handful of photographs—my family. My mother’s warm smile, my sister laughing as she pushed me into the lake that summer. I keep these pictures tucked away where no one can touch them, where even my trembling hands hesitate to linger. They are fragile, fading, but they are my anchor.  

These possessions are not just objects; they are lifelines. They remind me that I was once a man, not a monster. They are the proof that, no matter how far I fall, there was once light in my life. And perhaps, if I hold onto them tightly enough, there might be light again.  

The biggest problem in my life right now? Honestly, it’s not just the thirst—it’s the *overwhelming* realization that my humanity is slipping away with every passing moment. Three days ago, I was just Leopold Chesterfield, an ordinary man trying to make sense of my small, uneventful life. Now, I’m something else entirely. This thirst... it’s unbearable. It’s not just hunger; it’s a primal, gnawing void inside me that grows stronger the longer I resist. I’ve tasted blood once, and it changed me, sharpened my senses, made me stronger, but it also terrified me. I know I’ll need more, but every time I think about feeding again, I see the faces of the people I might hurt—or worse. 

I can feel my body changing, adapting to this new reality. I don’t sleep anymore. I don’t eat. I don’t age. It sounds like a gift, but it feels like a curse. How do I live with this? How do I *not* lose myself completely?

A typical morning? I barely see them anymore. When the sun rises, I retreat. My mornings begin in the dim, empty silence of my makeshift home—thick curtains drawn, every crack sealed to keep the daylight out. The world hums outside, but it’s distant, as though I no longer belong to it. Most days, I just sleep. Or try to. The thirst claws at me even in my dreams, and sometimes I wake up gasping, my throat dry, my mind restless. 

On the rare occasions I step out during the day, it’s for necessities—supplies, liquor, something to dull the edges of this new life. I stick to the shadows, keep my head low, avoid people. I’ve learned to move quickly, efficiently, and always with purpose. Nights are different. That’s when I come alive. Sometimes, I wander under the stars, trying to remind myself of beauty, of peace. Other nights... I hunt. Blood calls to me, and I can’t always ignore it.