The Audition Room
The room is stripped bare off its life.
A single folding chair. Dull gray walls. Monotone—as if to erase the stories from existence. They say wall has ears. The walls of the Audition Room only had a threatening and freezing silence to them.
The buzz of fluorescent light above. A camcorder blinking red, recording, right opposite the chair.
Neil sitting—relaxed, his small steps dangling. His mother Claire in the corner, trying to not look nervous as if her guts are not already up her neck.
Cindy leans forward, blazer sharp, eyes measuring. Her first representation after years of working behind the scenes. She wore an oddly shaped triangular dress—fully draped in yellow with just a hint of red on her lips and the belt.
At the table: M. Night Shyamalan, elbows on wood, hands steepled, waiting.
The script sits on Neil's lap. He doesn't look at it.
"You can start anytime boy." He tried to be encouraging. But his musky voice left much to be desired on positivity front.
---
Neil closes his eyes. He breathes once, twice, as if submerging before a dive. Shyamalan immediately recognized the breathing. Why is he doing that again? This scene demands fear and vulnerability. Is it some kind of ritual before his performance? Surprise me—Neil Dunphy.
The memory arrives:
A rainy street in his last life. Pavement slick, gutters overflowing. He remembers the role he once played — a beggar for theater, crouched by a trough, head low, stomach hollow. His ribs ached with hunger because he had starved himself for two days. He wanted to feel it.
At 20, while performing for the theater in his college. Neel wanted to experience real acting, he wanted to not only emote but be submerged into the act. Industry called it—The Method Acting.
At first, it worked. His eyes had been real—wet, pleading, searching the trough for scraps. More real than any of his play(s) before. He understood the struggles of a beggar, the daily fight for a single penny.
But, on his third day, a shadow fell.
A man. A stranger. Not an audience member that came to watch theater, not another actor for rehearsal, or a kind soul. Someone darker. The eyes of a predator seeing prey.
And just like that, hunger twisted into fear. Not staged fear. Real fear. Fear that gripped his chest, whispered you won't get out alive today.
---
Neil opened his eyes seconds later, light years away, and they shine to the camera. His lips tremble. His shoulders shrink inward, smaller, smaller, as if the chair is too big for him. As if the air was pressing on him; molding his body in a strange way.
His voice comes out cracked, barely audible:
Neil (as Cole):
"I want to tell you my secret now…"
Shyamalan's hand immediately rose in the air "CUT!"
The camcorder stops. Silence hangs like a shroud.
---
Shyamalan's POV
Before that instant, Shyamalan was confused. What is he doing? Why is he taking so long? Did I waste my time coming all the way to LA?
The scene was simple, Cole lying on the bed, crumbled into a ball covered by red blanket. He sees Malcom. Decides to reveal his biggest secret that he has kept hidden from the world in the fear of being labelled as a freak.
It is a scene that comes at a very important point in the film, but it is just few lines. Although Iconic, "I see dead people." Its whole purpose is to foreshadow that Malcom is also a Ghost.
But the moment I saw those eyes. My memory went back to the Swimming Tape. I had rewatched more times than his Conan tape. I couldn't point it then, but I know it now. There was magic in those eyes. They were not the eyes of a child actor. No. They held something much deeper in them; deeper than the somber of a whole life lived in regret and in guilt.
I have only seen these eyes in the most helpless of the people while travelling the world. In South America. In Africa. Where the next breath is precious than the next piece of bread.
He sees a starving child under a streetlight, rain dripping off his nose, eyes wide with hunger and terror. He sees the moment when hope turns to dread — when the stranger in the dark becomes the monster.
It's not acting. It's survival. And it's exactly what his script needs.
---
Neil blinks, but he doesn't move. His little chest still rises too quickly. His eyes remain unfocused, as if the man in the corner is still there.
Claire is the first to notice. She rushes forward, kneels, grips his hands.
"Neil, honey. It's okay. You're here. With me."
It takes him a few beats too long to answer. When he does, it's soft, shaky: "Yeah."
Cindy exhales slowly, almost impressed but visibly unsettled. He's five, she thinks. And he's already struggling to leave the role behind. God, what will this industry do to him?
---interview
Claire (arms crossed):
"I hated it. That pain in his eyes, how did he do that. I know he was brilliant, okay, fine. But seeing your kid look like… that? Like he is trapped in a nightmare he can't get out. He's four. He should be playing with Lego, not giving me fright."
Phil (grinning nervously):
"Honestly, it scared me. And I once sold a haunted condo. I thought we'd need, like, an exorcist. But hey — he nailed it, right? Nailed it!"
Cindy (smooth):
"I've been in this business for years. I've seen kids read lines, cry on cue, do cartwheels. But this… this wasn't a performance. It was possession."
---
Back in the room
Shyamalan leans back, eyes unreadable. Then he nods, once.
"That's enough," he says, almost reverently. "We'll talk soon."
Neil Dunphy. He remembers the name as if chanting a sacred mantra.
Claire clutches Neil close, like she needs to anchor him back into the present. Cindy straightens, already thinking of contracts, already calculating.
Neil just leans into his mother, his small fingers gripping hers tighter than usual.
Inside, he knows what he just did — reached back into a darkness only he remembered and brought it to light. But leaving it behind… that was harder than he'd thought.
He felt bad at the worried eyes of Claire.
(softly) I am fine, Mom. Let's go home.
---
Contract Discussion (Next Day)
Cindy (inner): The call came back earlier than I was expecting. I can't blame the team; any director after watching yesterday's audition will have no choice but to cast him. The producers would have also already seen the tape by now. It is Great! I knew he could do it; but to this degree. I definitely didn't make a bad choice signing that abuse of a contract with Neil.
"But this boy. Why does he have to be such a difficult client. What are these ridiculous conditions that he has sent across. Who in their right minds can even write such conditions and terms."
"I seriously doubt that he has an adult living in a child body. Nothing else explain this. I don't know where he gets his information. Claire did tell me that he knows more than children his age; and that he is always on Computer when he is free. But can one computer really explain this precociousness"
Later. At a conference room.
Coffee, legal pads, the smell of smug.
Two Touchstone lawyers, one cocky producer. Across from them: Cindy (sharp), Claire and Phil (nervous, and vigilant), Neil (tiny but unreadable).
The producer smirks as he slides the standard contract over.
Producer: "Union scale. $25,000 total. Standard residuals. That's our deal."
Claire mutters, "That's, like, less than Phil made selling the Spivey house."
Phil beams. "And that house had termites all over."
Cindy doesn't even look at the papers. "We'll accept scale—"
The producer had a grim even before she finished.
"—But only if the incentives match his value."
The producer leans back, undisturbed, but indulgent. "Go on."
Neil: "If the film grosses over $300 million worldwide, my residual payout increases by ten percent. Every additional hundred million, add another ten percent. If it passes $500 million, I receive a $1 million bonus, paid three months after release."
The room goes still.
The producer bursts into laughter. "Five hundred million? For a horror-drama? Kid, even Bruce doesn't think that'll happen. Especially when the top movie of the genre has only $524 million in its lifetime; and that was—The Exorcist."
Neil's eyes don't move. smirk. "Then you won't have to pay."
Producer: "Okay kid. You will have it. No problem. Only if the company can beat the Exorcist Lifetime Worldwide—let's set it at 520 million. I'll let go of the last four million." He looked at his lawyers.
Neil isn't done. He sits forward, voice precise.
Neil: "Add another condition. Promotions. If the studio requires me for long-term travel — junkets, premieres, press tours — I will be paid extra per diem, above scale. Lodging, food, and education must be provided. If I miss schooling, a private tutor travels with me and the Production house bears the cost."
The lawyers blink. Baffled. Even Cindy had a look of total loss. He didn't even discuss that with me. She gives him a silent glare.
The lawyers scribble furiously.
Lawyer 1: "That's… not usually included for minors. Promotions are considered part of goodwill."
Neil (evil): "My Goodwill can't pay for tutors; I'm sure yours can."
Cindy hides a smile. "What my client means is — if you're asking a 4-year-old to work twelve-hour PR days in Tokyo, Paris, London, he deserves compensation and stability. You can afford it."
The producer scoffs, but shrugs. "Fine. Write in a per diem and education clause. You people are thorough."
Cindy (inner): He is thorough. Didn't even let me perform. He did all the preparation himself. Am I just a glorified secretary then? I need to talk to him.
---
Interview:
Claire:
"He asked for a tutor. A tutor. I can't even get him to sit still for five minutes and now he wants international school credit?"
Phil:
"Honestly, I didn't even think about promotions. I was picturing him waving on a red carpet, maybe saying 'boo!' once. But apparently, that's, like, a job? Who knew?"
Cindy:
"This is why he's special. He doesn't just perform. He strategizes. At four. The lawyers underestimated him. They won't again."