No Way Back

It was a day like any other: I was walking along the path near my street as I do every morning. I walked many blocks until I reached the border that led to the other country.
Nothing could ruin this pleasant day for me; or at least that was what I thought. On the way back home, I heard what sounded like a baby crying. I tried to find where that screech came from that might wake up the dogs sleeping in the streets, until I finally found it: It was a little 4-year-old boy wearing a car-themed jacket, and his pants were ripped, showing big scratches. they made believe that he stumbled into a ditch by accident.
I approached him and asked him what he was doing crying in the middle of the path, to which he replied that he was lost and that he couldn't find his mother anywhere. I felt bad for him, no child deserves to be in these kind of situations. At his feet was a note indicating an address: "915 WILSHIRE BLVD #1600," the address where the boy lived. Then I offered to walk him to his house. After hearing this, he hugged my leg and thanked me for being very humble.
Without further ado, we ventured through the streets asking the people who were nearby where was the street we had to get to. Halfway through, the boy told me something that gave me a little anguish:
"Be careful with the motorcycle men"
What does he mean by that? I tried to forget that comment and we kept going, until the boy said the same thing again: "Be careful with the motorcycle men, they're very mean." Confused, I asked him if there were any passing near where he lives, to which he replied: "They are very bad people, they use hooks on chains to catch people." Just hearing that, I already felt insecure about my surroundings. I tried to change the subject in an awkward way, staying with the idea that those bikers could be somewhere on the trail, hoping that we would be the next victims.
After a few minutes, we finally arrived at the indicated address. The boy jumped for joy, knowing that he was finally going to see his family again. I laughed, and then knocked on the front door. But as soon as I was going to say goodbye to the boy, he just left, the only thing left of him was his jacket. Believing I just got pranked by him, I started kicking the jacket until I heard someone opening the door. I hid in a nearby bush. There, I saw a woman who came out of the house and picked up the jacket that was lying on the ground; then, she began to cry, using the garment to dry her tears before going back inside. At this point, I no longer knew what was going on. I will never forget this strange day.
The next day, my dad took me to a store to buy a magazine of my favorite superhero series. When I grabbed it, I accidentally knocked over a newspaper that was nearby. Picking it up, I was petrified to see the front page: There was a picture of a boy who was brutally hooked to death on a trail, and his corpse was covered in blood. Interestingly, he had on the same car-themed jacket that the woman had brought to his house. But what horrified me the most was not only the image, but the header below it that read:
"THEY'RE AT IT AGAIN! MOTORCYCLE GANG MURDER 4-YEAR-OLD BOY"
Category:Ghosts