The first bag was found on a cold morning in March 1997. It lay discarded near the railway tracks, a black plastic sack like any other, unnoticed until a passerby decided to look inside. What they found would change Mons forever. Inside was not trash, but a severed human thigh, its pale flesh disturbingly clean. The police were called, and at first, they believed it to be an isolated case. But then more bags began to appear…along roadsides, train tracks, and ditches. Each one contained human remains, dismembered with surgical precision. Some held arms, others legs or torsos, each piece neatly separated, as if the killer had taken their time, ensuring that the cuts were perfect.

The victims were women, all between their twenties and forties, most of them from vulnerable backgrounds…those struggling to survive, working late hours, or living alone in the shadows of the city. Someone had killed them, drained their bodies of blood, and carefully dismembered them before discarding the remains across the city. The police searched desperately for a pattern, a clue, something to hold on to, but there was no blood in the bags, no DNA, no evidence left behind. Whoever the killer was, they knew exactly what they were doing. Investigators theorized that the person responsible must have had medical or butcher training…someone accustomed to handling flesh. A doctor? A slaughterhouse worker? A hunter? No one knew.

Fear gripped Mons. Women refused to walk alone, whispers of a serial killer spread through the streets, and the police, overwhelmed, launched a full-scale manhunt. They interrogated surgeons, former military personnel, and anyone with knowledge of human anatomy, but nothing led them closer to the truth. The Butcher of Mons, as the media called them, had no face, no name, and left behind only horror and silence.

And then, just as suddenly as the killings began, they stopped. No more bags appeared. No more bodies were found. It was as if the killer had simply vanished into the shadows, leaving only the gruesome memories behind. The police never made an arrest. No suspect was ever named. The case, despite all efforts, went cold. Over time, Mons tried to forget. The world moved on. Unlike infamous killers like Jack the Ripper or the Zodiac, the Butcher of Mons slipped into obscurity, a crime too disturbing, too unresolved to be retold.

But even now, the questions remain. Did the killer die? Were they imprisoned for another crime? Or did they simply change the way they hunted? Somewhere, someone still knows what happened in those darkened streets. Someone still remembers the feel of the knife, the weight of the bags, the sound of plastic rustling as they tied the knots shut.

And perhaps, even now, they are still watching.