The story starts off very much like it’s been told. With a little girl, barefooted with tangled yellow- blonde hair, using the ratty apron to carry homemade matches, more matches in her hand, desperately trying to sell them in the fading light of the day, trudging through the cold as snow fell into her tangled blonde curls, as she shivered miserly, half froze and hungry. She hadn’t eaten all day, and her stomach was gnawing at her.
She couldn’t go home without selling these matches. Papa would beat her senseless if she came home with nothing but matches. And no one had bought a single one from her that day.
And it wasn’t going to be any warmer at home either.
She looked into the brightly lit windows, her mouth watering at the smell of New Year’s Eve goose, her mouth watering and her stomach growling. What wouldn’t she give for a bite of that goose!
#
However, in a pub a few blocks aware from where the little matchstick girl had almost given up on selling her wares, a group of locals were gathered as the local gravedigger, a slender young man dressed in various shades of brown, came in, soaking wet, with a wheelbarrow full of horrifically cut up body parts, soaked white with water. Human body parts. The group gasped, and other patrons turned, staring in horror as they realized what they were looking at.
“I caught Dr. Jorgensen trying to toss these in the lake!” The gravedigger exclaimed, “I waited until he was gone to fish them out. Didn’t want to wind up as part of his—depraved experiments myself.”
“Just like that madman in Geneva!” A curly-haired milkmaid in the crowd shouted, pointing her finger at wheelbarrow, “Franken—Franken-something.”
“Alright, alright, everybody clam down!” The head of the Doomsayers’ Union, a strapping man with gray hat, urged.
The gravedigger, however, was not done. “I’ve been telling you all for months something wasn’t right. That someone was digging up graves, but did you believe me? Nooooo.”
“Alright, alright,” The head of the Doomsayer’s Union said, “You were clearly right. We’re sorry. The question is, what do we do about it now?”
“The only thing we can do,” The pub’s barmaid said, smoothing out her apron as she came back from behind the bar, “Form an angry mob, run him out of town, and destroy whatever foul beast he’s created.”
A roar came up from the crowd in agreement.
“Then it’s settled.” The Head of the Doomsayer’s union said, “Where are the farmers? We’re going to need some pitchforks!”
#
As the townsfolk prepared their mob, the little matchstick girl’s already sorry plight was becoming increasingly dire. She had curled up under a spot where two roofs met, her hands and feet having no feeling. Desperate, she took a match, striking it against the box, causing it to sputter to life with a warm-orange flame.
Holding her hand over it, her world suddenly changed, and she found herself sitting in front a grand brass and iron stove, the fire radiating with warmth. It was the most glorious thing the little girl had ever seen, much less felt! She stretched out her feet to warm them, too, only for the light to fade, taking the stove with it, leaving her with only a burnt and blackened match.
If it happened once… The girl thought, striking another match.
#
Meanwhile, the mob had gathered up all their pitchforks, torches and miscellaneous mob supplies. However, they had hit a snag with their torches.
“I don’t believe it!” One of the farmers who provided the materials for the mob exclaimed, “We’ve got absolutely nothing to light these things with!”
The milkmaid rushed forward with her unlit torch, “Nothing at all?”
“Nothing!” The farmer repeated, “Not flit, no matches!”
The mob began to murmur, panicked. How would they see to defeat their foe if they couldn’t light their torches? It was so dark out!
“Now, now,” The head of the Doomsayers’ union urged, “Everybody clam down. We’ll just go into town and find some improvised person selling matches and buy some off them. We’ll get our light, and the money will go to a good cause.”
The mob cheered happily with another Doomsayer declaring, “And that’s why he’s the head of the union!”
And with that, they marched out to find a match seller.
#
Meanwhile, the little matchgirl had lit another match, trying to get back to the stove, but instead found herself sitting a wonderfully laid table, with a succulent goose, roasted and stuffed, actually waddling its way towards her on the table, knife, and fork in its breast, ready for her to eat! As she reached out to take the fork, the match went out again, and she found herself in her makeshift shelter, hungrier than ever. Devastated, tears welled up in her eyes.
“Little girl?”
The matchstick girl looked up and saw a large crowd with pitchforks and unlit torches mere inches away from her. Frightened, she back with a gasp.
“Now, now,” A man wearing a gray hat at the front of the crowd said, “We don’t mean any harm—well, not to you anyway, we were just hopping to buy some of your matches…”
As the head of the Doomsayers’ Union’s voice trailed off, the mob got a good look at the little, matchstick girl, her twisted hair, her thin form, her feet colored alarming shades of red and blue.
It was a young woman in a thick yellow cloak and matching kerchief in her hair who stepped forward, kneeling in front of the little matchstick girl as she said, “You don’t look too well, little one.”
“I’m just…” The little matchstick girl stammered, tears forming in her eyes, “I’m just so cold…”
The mob looked at each other, each thinking the same thing. They weren’t sure what to do with this lost child, especially since they still had a job to do, but they couldn’t leave her there.
The head of the Doomsayers’ Union handed the girl a sack of coins as the milkmaid lifted her up into the air. “Gravedigger!” She called out, “Bring the wheelbarrow!”
The gravedigger came from behind the crowd, pushing the wheelbarrow, thankfully cleaned from its earlier gore. The steward from the local Earldom brought out a warming pan, putting it the wheelbarrow.
“What were you planning on doing with that ?!” The gravedigger asked with a raised eyebrow.
“I just thought it might be useful.” The steward said as the milkmaid sat the little matchgirl into the wheelbarrow, then put her cloak over the little girl as the others lit their torches or offered their cloaks to their newfound charge.
Once everything was in order the head of the doomsayers’ union called out, “Alright, everyone, we still have a job to do.”
“Right,” Someone in the crowd said, then they all marched off, the gravedigger pushing the little matchstick girl as they shouted, “The monster must be destroyed! The monster must be destroyed…”
#
Dr. Jorgensen’s castle was dark and imposing, made of sturdy gray stones, with a large, thick wooden door. For a moment the mob feared they would not be able to get in.
“Alright, men,” The head of the doomsayers’ union called out, “Bring the battering ram!”
Five men came out, carrying a thick wooden pole with ram’s head craved into the end.
“Where did that come from?” The gravedigger wondered, looking around, “Seriously, did anyone see that before now?”
From her place in the wheelbarrow, the little matchstick girl just shrugged.
The men made quick work of the door, bursting through it, followed by the mob. “Dr. Jorgensen!” The head of the doomsayers’ union called out, “We know what you’ve been doing in here, and we’ve come to put a stop to it! Just surrender your experiments and leave town, no one has to get hurt!”
No one answered.
“Alright,” The head of the doomsayers’ union sighed, “Looks like this is going to be the hard way. Spread out, search, and ransack everything!”
Still in the gravedigger’s wheelbarrow, the little matchstick watched wide-eyed at the chaos around her, beakers breaking, slabs being thrown over, someone screaming something about some place called Sparta for some reason.
That when she thought she heard a familiar sound: The sound of soft weeping.
“Wait!” The little girl called out.
The entire mob froze.
“You all heard her?” The gravedigger spoke up, “You all her little voice over all that racket we were just making?”
“Someone’s in there.” The little girl pointed towards where she heard weeping.
The gravedigger and his passenger leading the way, the mob creeped into the room with surprising stealth and found the back of giant, ludicrously broad-shouldered figure with a long mane of thick, luxurious medium brown hair. His skin had varying shades stitched together over taunt muscles.
“That must be the creature.” One of the doomsayers whispered.
“I wasn’t expecting it—him—to have such great hair.” The barmaid added in a hushed tone.
That was when the creature became aware of their presence, turning around and flinching in fear.
“It’s alright,” The little matchstick girl assured him removing her coverings and trying to crawl out of the barrow, “We don’t want to hurt you.”
The mob exchanged uncomfortable glances and the Steward whispered, “Do you want to tell her or should I?”
“What’s your name?” The little matchstick girl asked.
“I have no name!” The creature broke out sobbing, “My wrenched creator never gave me one!”
“Speaking of which,” The gravedigger spoke up, “You wouldn’t happen to know where your, uh, wretched creator is now, would you?”
The creature glared at the gravedigger. “You have only just missed him,” He said gravely, slowly raising to his feet, “For he has a fled after refusing to finish my bride, and taking the materials I would need to need to give her life myself!”
“This is exactly like that nutjob from Genevea!” The milkmaid exclaimed. Narrowing her eyes, she asked, “Hey, you haven’t killed anyone like his monster did?”
“No,” The creature gasped, “Why would I do such a wicked thing?!”
“Just had to check.” The milkmaid answered.
The little matchstick girl took the creature’s hand. “He’s not a bad creature.” She declared, “He’s just lonely. Can’t you take him in like you did me?”
The mob exchanged looks. “Could we do that?” One of the farmers asked.
“I mean, he said it himself, he hasn’t killed anybody.” The milkmaid pointed out, “So what’s stopping us?”
The head of the doomsayers’ union thought for a minute. “Alright,” He said finally, “The creature can stay.”
A happy cheer went up from the no longer angry mob.
#
Back at the pub, the disbanded mob quickly put together a New Years’ Eve party for their new friends. And the little matchstick finally got a bite of goose. Every was dancing, talking, the creature spinning the little matchstick girl, in her new warm dress and shoes, around on his shoulders.
Suddenly, the door burst opened and straggly, ragged man burst through the door. “There you are, you little cow!” The man seethed, pointing at the little matchstick girl, “So this is where you’ve been, out galivanting instead of supporting your family?”
The little matchstick trembled in fear, clinging to her new friend.
However, that was when the head of the doomsayers’ union stepped forward. “Is this the bad man who threatened to beat you if you didn’t sell all those matches?”
Her eyes closed, the little matchstick girl nodded.
Glaring at the girl’s father, the head of the doomsayers’ union declared, “Well we know just how to handle child abusers’ ‘round here.”
The towns people began to gather up their discarded mob supplies, glaring daggers at the abusive father. Realizing what was about to happen, he turned and ran from the pub as the mob took after him chanting, “The monster must be destroyed! The monster must be destroyed…”
Glancing down at the creature, the little matchstick said, “We should probably stop them.”
“I do believe you are right, my young friend.” The creature replied before taking after the mob.