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The Belgian Strangler.

If you've purchased Antwerp's sarin-wrapped Hand pralines, drank the local ale complete with hand logo, visited the statue in the middle of the city or the many buildings emblazoned with a hand or if you've said "Hello." to anyone running a gift shop, you have no doubt heard about The Legend of Brabo.

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To keep things as short as a long boring fable can be and to keep it sweet as a tale so ancient and stale can be, a giant by the name of Druon Antigoon managed to take over the castle that stood next to the river Scheldt who then decided that the tax to be paid by all the boatmen who imported goods into the city should be half of the cargo that they brought in.

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If the boatmen refused, Druon would brutally slice off the merchant's hand and hurl it into the river, before watching the screaming trader clutch his bloodied stump. And Druon would laugh.

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This went on until our protagonist, who you may have already guessed was named Brabo, slew the giant and threw his hand into the river.

Many folks believe that Antwerp received its name from that myth, deriving from the Dutch for 'throwing hands' that gives you 'handwerpen'.

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"Now nothing remains of the giant but a memory." claims tour guides offered up in the thick perspex bins.

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But you won't find anything about "The 1971 Incident" or the murder of young Zachary Cull in 2011.

No, for information about those you'd best look outside the public archives and away from the tourist traps and info booths and delve into the more alternative and occult book houses.

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In 2017, none are standing. Three perished in mysterious and unexplained fires (Everyone's favourite and most interesting type of fire.) and the other two closed due to the boring reason of "barely made enough money to pay the monthly lease and at some point failed to meet it."

Dull, boring. I'm practically falling asleep just recounting this.

What's not boring, however, are the books that I have managed to uncover.

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"A History of Antwerp - First Edition" showcases the tale of a Trappist monk who became lost in an alleyway for several hours. When he eventually stumbled out of his maze, he was disgraced by the monastery for drinking.

For who else but a drunkard or a lunatic would say that "the walls moved, brick by brick, reassembling to form a dead end whenever out of sight"?

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"Antwerp: The Bitter (And Lager) Truth" by Jane Johnson showcases the discontinued ale "Pink Rat" named after an inebriated Belgian saw a fleshy animal the size of a fist climb out of a garbage can and scuttled down the street on five legs.

This story is obviously not the whole picture. I tracked down the Belgian local who was responsible for the name.

You've probably already guessed it.

The man had never touched a drop of alcohol in his entire life.

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And the third book: "Architecture: Building Antwerp" by Brian Higgis.

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This is the only surviving account of "The 1971 Incident" you will ever find on record.

It is essentially thus:

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On November 27th 1971, locals woke up to find that their beloved city had become an altogether different jigsaw.

Most were absolutely positive that the brickwork of The Post Office had switched with The Bakery , the cobblestones had shuffled slightly and the entire city seemed a different size. "Bigger in some places, smaller in others." they would say.

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This was during a real tourist boom, so these observations were just seen as locals grumbling about non-locals and not anything substantial.

In time, it got to a point where the number of tourists were greater than the number of locals. It is still that way today.

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And tourists are so taken in by their new environments, they often fail to spot things.

Things that are making the locals start to leave.

Because it's not longer a friendly and jaunty European folktale. This is all too real.

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It is at this point that I suppose I should tell you about Zachary Cull.

He was only twelve years old, and was doomed to never reach his teenage years. 

His parents had left the hotel apartment, leaving Zach on his own with only Belgian broadcasting for company on the night of the ninth of November 2011.

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He was found at 10pm by his parents who, after the initial worry of when he did not answer the door, battered it down to find him dead, lying in bed in a similar position to how he'd been lying when they left him.

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Only with thick red handprints around his neck.

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Suffocated to death.

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The inquest into his murder was, frankly, fascinating.

The cameras picked up absolutely nothing from the corridor outside. To conserve energy, the cameras were in a constant "sleep" mode and would only relay footage if something human-sized was in the corridor. That would trigger the cams.

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But someone was there. Fingerprints were taken from the doorknob. They didn't match the fingerprints of any Antwerp citizen on the police database, despite the database being both old and exhaustive.

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There were no footprints either, bizarrely.

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The hotel tried to reopen the room as soon as they could, but guests were put off by strange nocturnal shuffling.

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In fact, I stayed in Room 23 of The Grand Belvist hotel.

Around midnight, I heard a rapping on my window and pulled back the curtain, expecting to see a window cleaner.

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There was no-one there.

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