AN:
Inspired by listening to Tom Waits' "What's He Building in There?" while playing AC at two AM. It was also majorly inspired by the fantastic fanfiction "The Terrible Secret of Animal Crossing". While it's a fantastic work, and I completely dig the idea of there more going on in Animal Crossing that what the player see, I also thought it was worth noting the old mantra: They're just as afraid of you as you are of them.
The… thing is back.
The Monster.
It disappeared for a while. I don't know where.
No animal has seen It for months. Almost a year.
I certainly don't know how It could have left; Cooper insists that it never left the gate. Booker says the same (but really, he's not the most reliable).
But I know It left. It must have.
…But how did it leave without using the gate?
Where could It have gone? There is nowhere for it to go, except Its own House.
When I noticed that the Monster had not emerged from its House in nearly a week (it was odd, you see, for the Monster came out nearly everyday, if only for a few hours) I quickly informed Tom. I expressed worry that somehow, It escaped. That somehow, It saw though the façade of the town It had named Canisp, and escaped.
Tom only smiled and laughed the way he always does that's very encouraging and calm, but at the same time somehow stern and mysterious. That's the thing about Tom. He is always smiling, and though it holds no ill will, when he laughs it's as if he knows something that you don't. (Something that you probably don't want to know, either.)
He rested a paw on my shoulder, and assured me that escape from Canisp was quite impossible. "It has produced a big enough House for itself, hm? Yes, yes, I'm sure It just got bored because it doesn't know how to make it bigger", he said, "There's plenty of furniture stored away in there to keep It entertained for quite some time".
Tom is certainly right about that. The Monster's House is the largest any one in this town has ever seen. The main room alone is twice - no, thrice - as big as my whole house. And that's just the main room! There are many more rooms I have not seen into, for I can never seem to get past the main room. I have seen flashes of the other three entrances, and perhaps quick looks into the other rooms, but that's all. I cannot see past the entryways, nor past the stairwell.
I once got a full look at the room in back, though, for a split second when the Monster was not looking.
It was filled with the pictures of every single soul in town.
If this were anyone but the Monster, this may have been an impressive feat. With anyone else, it would have been a great show of love for the friends one has made in town. With the Monster, it's just… wrong. There was nothing warm or loving about that room. It was just a collection. The way some animals collected something like red furniture or fossils, It collected us.
Had I not seen it, I could not have imagined a house so terribly big. (I must emphasize terrible.) It is so big, I don't think you can call it a house…more like a mansion. A castle, even. I think the only building that is bigger is the museum, and even then, I think it's still close. Monster or not, why does anything need that much room? There is only one Monster and it really only needs one room to live in. All good animals have humble, happy little homes, and they are grateful for them. Our houses are not mansions, but they're ours, and they're big enough for our size. The Monster is no bigger than an Animal. Why does It need so much?
At night, you can see the lights blaring all the way across town. Seven glaring, blaring points of light in the dark, from an awful blue and white monolith of wood and glass.
They never switch off.
It's always watching us. I don't think it sleeps.
I think it is somehow appropriate that I'm the one who first noticed that the Monster is back, since I was also the last one to see it. It was outside ripping flowers from their roots and hacking into the tender flesh of spruce trees. It's because spruce trees bear no fruit, I think. No native apples, no foreign pears or cherries to sell for double price at Nookingtons. Spruce trees were of no use to It.
So It killed them all with the axe. (I hate that axe.)
Some of the flowers - mostly the red roses - were wilting, so It ripped them up, killing them as well. That actually bothered me even more than the spruce trees. I mean, It just as easily could have taken the watering can and revived them. They did not have to die. They could have lived for weeks, months, longer. They only need water. It isn't like It doesn't know the habit of watering flowers, it gave care to the hybrids all the time, and it's not that hard to just water the flowers a few feet from your door.
Actually, that's not entirely true. The Monster has been known to water some of the flowers, but as far as I am aware, it only bothers to care for the fancy hybrids that It has managed to breed. Like the fruit trees, hybrids have use - they are worth more money because they are rarer to see, and they are worth the trouble of letting them live. They're all lined up in perfect symmetrical shapes just outside the absurdly gigantic house in the lawn, not far from the small orchard of fruit trees. It's an impressive collection easily seen from the house, as the Monster sits in million bell chairs in the room filled with all of our photos.
Anyway, I know that It never watered common flowers. It ripped them straight from the roots. When It eventually noticed how bare the grass appeared, It simply bought more flowers to replace the dead ones. Soon, they would die, too; they too would be replaced.
After it cut down the spruces and finished ripped out all the dying common flowers, It gathered up its tools - the golden axe, the fishing pole, the golden slingshot, and the bags of bells It shook from all of the trees - and went into the House.
That was the last anyone saw of the Monster, eleven months and fifteen days ago.
Until tonight.
Tonight I woke at three in the morning; my television had awakened me because I had forgotten to switch it off when I went to bed. As I began to head back upstairs to grab the last few hours of sleep, I glanced out my window and there It was, right outside. The Monster, in a straw sunhat and sunglasses as big as saucers was watering the bed of white tulips by my window. It noticed me watching It and waved to me with a smile that seemed eerily friendly. Although I was still very much asleep, I had not forgotten Nook's warning that citizens should always be courteous to Monsters, lest they become offended and thus, agitated and destructive. I smiled and waved back until it left, despite not feeling like smiling at all.
I really feel as if I ought to tell Tom Nook about that odd behavior, but I already know he thinks I'm a little paranoid, thinking that his cautionary tales of Monsters has worked a little too well. He will tell me that I was just startled about the Monster's return, that's all. I can hear him now: "Lucy, watering a few flowers is a good thing, remember? It's nothing to worry about, eh?" And alright, maybe he'd be right and I am overreacting a little.
Still, you have to admit: there's something really, really off about someone who waters your roses at three in the morning, wearing sunglasses with no sun.