Anthropologists are annoying, and we define our primary method of research by its annoyance. We sit and list endless questions about every aspect of everything – we try to revert back to infancy, to point at anything basic and ask “what” and “why” until who we are speaking to are simply sick of us. And then we ask someone else. And during this whole time, we sit back and we watch. We observe what people are doing, and then we try and do it too. We do what is called “participant observation”. Anthropology, at its heart, is a collection of questions about simple things in life: why we wear what we wear when we wear it; what we say when we say it and how we say it. We prod questions immensely with little apparent end in sight – always anchoring everything to something we can see or hear from the community itself. We go into a community like children who are eager to learn everything we can about how life is structured, and why it is structured that way.

 Many anthropologists see their field sites as remote locations. They load a backpack up with essentials, a voice recorder, maybe a camera and a journal. They grab a machete and they trek into the wildernesses, eager to live in small villages they hope the world has never heard from before. I, on the other hand, find my field site online. I do not trek with a machete, but with a laptop and a highspeed internet connection. I believe there is a lot to learn from every community, not just the ones who live in remote locations in the world. There is something interesting about people, fundamentally, and this does not change with the use of highspeed internet and online chat rooms. Some unknown community is not the only one who still tells interesting stories – we all do.

 This book is a reflection of anthropology when it comes to monsters – what is the monster doing for the community it represents? What effect does the monster impart to those who tell it, share it, and created it? How do the monsters impact the world that tells them?