Philadelphia, January 1998.
M. Night Shyamalan sat at his desk; papers stacked in precarious towers. The script for The Sixth Sense lay open, red ink underlining words he'd rewritten a dozen times.
The cast list was nearly locked:
Bruce Willis as Malcolm — reluctant but secured by Touchstone's pressure.
Toni Collette circling for the mother role.
Olivia Williams already signed.
Everything was in place — except for the boy.
---
Shyamalan (inner voice)
Cole Sear is the axis of this story. Without him, it collapses. The audience has to believe his fear, his secret. Nine years old is the ceiling. Any older, it tips into melodrama. Any younger… and you can't find the one. Not who can carry this much grief.
The studio wasn't helping. They wanted a "safe face." Someone from Disney Channel. Someone bankable. But M. Night didn't want cute. He wanted raw and fragile. A child who could look into the camera and wordlessly beg for help.
The closest candidate so far: Michael C. Culkin's — eleven years old. Too tall. Too old. Wrong proportions. Haley Joel Osment— rough on the acting still.
Shyamalan rubbed his temples. I need smaller. Someone who makes the world feel too big for him. Someone whose very height makes you ache for him.
A knock. His assistant stepped in, clutching a manila folder.
"Sir, you should see this. Came through the press clippings."
Shyamalan took the folder. Inside: a VHS tape, labeled with marker scrawl. Prodigy Swimmer — Channel 7.
"Really?" he muttered. "I don't need athletes. I need—"
"Just give it a watch."
He pressed play. The screen showed a pool deck, tiny figures shivering in swimsuits. Then the camera zoomed: a boy, four years old, hair plastered down, eyes fixed on the water.
The pre-race chaos roared around him — parents shouting, kids giggling nervously. But not this one. His face shifted, like someone dimming a light. The childish wiggle disappeared. He stood on the edge of the pool, jaw set, shoulders loose but firm.
Like a lion about to lunge.
Shyamalan leaned forward. That stillness. That calm before violence. That's not learned. That's instinct.
The gun fired. The boy dove — clean, slicing water like glass. Throughout the race, even Shyamalan found himself cheering for the boy. There was a natural gravitas to his action, the way he moved, the way he looked at the camera as if looking directly in the eyes of the viewer.
The tape cut to the post-race interview. The reporter knelt down with a microphone, too aggressive. The boy was unfazed; he answered with unnerving deadpan face. Then a juice box hit him in the face, the clip ended before the juice could spill all over. Perfect editing to build intrigue.
But Shyamalan replayed the start twice. The look at the water. The disappearance of "child." He wasn't interested in the roasting; he was interested in his inner demon.
Shyamalan (inner voice)
This isn't vulnerability. This is control. Predatory focus. He's not begging for help — he's calculating, observing the prey. But God, that expression. At four years old, he can switch it off and on, summon calm like an adult. If he chooses acting… he'll be a force one day.
The assistant shifted. Felling a little smug about getting the grumpy Indian friend of his to show emotion other than contemplation.
"There's more. Next weekend's Conan O'Brien has him. NBC's promoting him as a prodigy — swimmer, comedian, the whole package. David vs Goliath. 3-foot vs 6 foot."
Shyamalan stared at the paused frame on the screen — the boy's face at the pool's edge, toes curled at the edge, body coiled in a lunge, eyes far older than his age.
Not what I'm looking for. Not yet. I need eyes that show fear. Helplessness. Vulnerability. This boy shows none of that.
Still, he didn't eject the tape. He pressed play again, watching the transformation at the starting block. His red pin hitting the table underneath him like woodpecker at its work.
Shyamalan (closing thought)
Maybe I'll give him a chance. Just one audition. Who knows? Perhaps those eyes can plead as well as they pierce.
---
NBC Offices, 12:45 a.m.
The phones rang like fire alarms. Inside 30 Rock, a cluster of NBC staffers gathered around a speakerphone, still buzzing from the just-aired Late Night with Conan O'Brien.
"Early Nielsen overnights are in," the head of research announced. "We pulled a 6.2 household rating, 12 share. That's a 20% jump over last week. Biggest Saturday retention since we launched the weekend slot."
An intern read off the demographics: "Among 18–49? 3.1 rating. That's Letterman territory, at least for one night."
A producer rubbed his forehead. "Unbelievable. All because of the promo — '3-foot prodigy meets 6′4″ Conan.' Guess it worked."
Another exec muttered, half in awe, "It's not just swimming. The kid can act. That flip… that silence. My wife screamed at the TV. He will be famous after this."
Around the room, people laughed nervously. They knew they had a hit segment. A "special."
---
Saturday, January 17, 1998.
Many people who were not interested in the latest reboot of The Late Night-Show on NBC quietly sat in front of their TVs with their families.
Conan leaned toward the tiny guest. "Neil, we have discussed your future and studies. You sound very mature and funny—a deadly combination if I may add."
"... But there is still something we don't know about you. What scares the little adult like you? Monsters? Brussels sprouts? Cursed Tofu?"
Neil shrugged, deadpan. "No. Taxes."
The audience erupted. Conan slapped the desk, cackling.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we've got a preschooler already afraid of the IRS!"
"Some would say they are just doing their job! Hehe".
Conan laughed even louder. Audience also remembered the torture they faced filling those tax forms, some laughed others panicked. IRS's job does seem to make them fearful of not filing taxes. Even undies need to be registered.
Neil smirked, observing the crowd and Conan's exaggerated laugh.
Then his expression shifted. Sudden; Like a curtain dropping, all the light drained from his face. His small shoulders tensed. His eyes grew wide, glassy, voice falling to a trembling whisper.
Neil (low): "But sometimes… when the room is dark"
He paused. Second longer than necessary. Enough for people to reel in and forget the earlier riot.
"... I feel someone behind me. It doesn't blink. They. Don't breathe. They… await."
Silence. The laugh track of America evaporated. Conan's grin froze, unsettled.
Neil held it, too long for comfort. Then he snapped into a cheeky grin.
Neil (bright): "Got you! Hahaha."
The crowd exploded — laughter, cheers, clapping so loud the band nearly drowned. Conan half-collapsed across the desk. What did I just saw? I swear, the temperature dropped few degrees when I heard his shrill voice.
"WHAT was that?!" he shouted. "You just turned into a horror actor and back in blink!"
Neil shrugged, grinning. "Acting. How else do you think, I'll get my Oscar—by fixing computers?"
Laugh-Applause thundered across the room. Conan. First time in long, felt that he had fun on the stage. All the doubts of the producers; his friends; those critique. He felt really delighted. This is why I made the show. To talk to such interesting guests.
---
Philadelphia, A Saturday of Jan 1998
M. Night Shyamalan sat in his living room; eyes locked on the TV. The boy's sudden flip — the fear, the silence — froze him in place.
He replayed it once. Twice. Thrice. The VHS recorder whirred.
That was it. The eyes. Not childish innocence, not Disney-channel precocity. But fragile terror, unspoken, pleading.
Shyamalan stood, pacing. That's what I wrote in Cole Sear's margins. Fear that lives in silence.
He grabbed another tape from his stack — the swimming race someone had mailed earlier. He ran it side by side.
On the pool deck, the boy's goofy energy disappeared. His body went still, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. Like a lion ready to lunge. That was focus, control.
On Conan, he saw the opposite: those same eyes turned glassy, small, helpless. That was vulnerability and fear.
Together, it was everything he needed.
---
His assistant director stepped into the room, cautious.
"Did you get his contact. Is he willing to appear for audition?"
"Sir… There was a slight problem. My sources say Osbrink Talent has already been in touch with the family. Cindy Osbrink herself. She's pushing hard."
Shyamalan's brow arched. "So, the boy has an agent already? Not a surprise; he seemed prepared. Maybe someone did teach him how to behave on stage."
The AD hesitated. "No. Not Sir. He is a complete beginner. Totally fresh. Not even a background role."
Shyamalan feigned surprise. It is rare; but not impossible. I guess.
"Then?"
"Cindy and his family have a meeting set for Monday. That's what I heard. We have his contact, but due to regulations. It is not convenient for us to call their family directly. Especially on the weekend."
Shyamalan's pulse quickened. Monday. Two days. I don't have two days.
"Arrange a screening," he said sharply. "I want him reading by next week. Call her—Cindy. Tonight, if you have to."
The AD nodded and slipped away.
---
In Los Angeles, Cindy Osbrink stared at her television, stunned. The applause still rang in her ears. Even after two hours have passed.
Her phone rang. She picked it up; and hung up after a short call.
Unreal. One hour. It's only been one hour and already a director is circling. The worst has happened.
She clenched her jaw. I should have locked him in yesterday. Damn it. But it doesn't matter. I will. Even if I have to personally babysit his career, even if I have to work twelve-hour days again, I will not let this slip. What is exclusivity in the face of the next superstar. I was anyway getting bored of doing the CEO work all the time.
She smoothed her blazer, forcing herself calm. Outwardly, she'd smile. Outwardly, she'd wait until Monday, as agreed.
But inside, she believed:
By Monday, that boy is mine.