29/09/2025
True Crime: Denver, Colorado: The Thin Man
The air is thin here. So are the things that live in it. They call him the Thin Man. He’s not a man at all, but a thing that looks like a man stretched on a rack, seven feet tall and no wider than my arm. He wears an old, wide-brimmed hat that shadows a face with no features, just a smooth, pale plane.
He appears on lonely mountain roads at twilight, standing perfectly still. If you stop, if you even slow down, he’s suddenly right next to your car, his face pressed against the window, that blank expanse of skin staring in.
I was driving back from a ski trip, taking the pass. The sun was setting, and there he was. I slammed on the brakes. Mistake. He was at my window in an instant. I hit the gas, the tires screeching. I looked in my rearview mirror. He was gone. I thought I was safe. Then I heard a soft *thump-thump-thump* from the roof of my car. He was up there. I swerved, trying to throw him off, but the thumping continued, a slow, patient rhythm.
The thumping stopped. I dared to hope. Then, slowly, his head lowered into view, upside down, right in front of my windshield. That smooth, featureless face was inches from the glass. It began to press against it. I saw the safety glass start to splinter, a web of cracks forming around the pressure point. I’m driving blind now, swerving down the mountain, the sound of cracking glass and a high, thin whistling sound filling my ears. I don’t know if I’m going to crash or if the glass is going to break first. All I know is that the Thin Man wants in.
