January 1999 — A Happy Start
The year began with the sound of a baby's cry. Luke Dunphy arrived in January, crumpled but loud, announcing himself with a scream that seemed to say: I'm here, deal with it.
Claire glowed despite the exhaustion. Phil was thrown out of the operating room twice, and Alex—who had just turned two in the hospital—was both grumpy and delighted, wondering when she could have her turn at "teaching him alphabets."
Neil stood by the crib, hands folded behind his back, studying his new brother just as he had done with Alex. Another variable in the equation. Another Dunphy in the game. Time would tell whether Luke would be a new party member or the hidden boss.
---
August 1, 1999 — The Premiere Week
After the shoot ended in March 1999. Neil spent an extra week in Philadelphia for the voice overs. He noticed few extra lines than in original script but Neil wasn't worried. Having spent months with the crew, he was now confident in the final work that Shyamalan will produce. He was particularly looking forward to the post-credit that director promised him.
---
The week before the premiere began with an internal screening at Touchstone's office, attended by Shyamalan and the two producers of the movie.
Producer 1: "This is too revealing. We should cut Cole's scene at the midpoint."
Producer 2: "Exactly! Although Neil acted perfectly—overshadowing Malcolm in that scene with his vulnerability—people might still notice!"
Shyamalan: "No! I will not allow that. The scene is the crux of the movie, and Neil has not only matched Bruce here—he's gone beyond what any child actor could pull off on the planet. I'll not cut it. Without it, Malcolm's ending flashback loses its meaning. We've already verified with the test audience: no one saw the twist coming, even with Cole's extended scene..."
Finally, Shyamalan convinced the producers to keep most of Cole's scene. Neil wasn't aware that the director had fought tooth and nail to keep his scenes in the movie.
---
August 2, 1999 — TheVillage Theatre, LA
By summer's end, the Dunphys were divided. Dede refused the chaos of Hollywood.
"You go wade through the lights and screaming people if you want," she told Claire. "I'm staying with the children who aren't in this circus. Also they are too small to go to the screening anyway. It is a PG-13 movie."
She stayed behind with Alex, Hailey, and newborn Luke, settling into the grandmother role she was most comfortable with: practical, irritated, skeptical. Hailey threw the biggest tantrum of her life that night, but was finally put to sleep with promise of her own makeup set that she will use to create her "artistic" zombies.
Dede's absence at family events was noticeable, but everyone quietly accepted it. Neil had tried to convince her to come, but she was against the idea of babysitters alone with the kids. Neil also kind of agreed to her reasons.
That left Neil, Claire, Phil, Jay, and Mitchell to walk the red carpet.
Mitchell flew in from New York, tuxedo perfect, hamming for cameras in a way that screamed stereotype but worked anyway. Jay kept one hand jammed in his pocket, radiating pride he pretended wasn't there. Claire fussed over Neil's bow tie, while Phil trailed behind with the camcorder like a war correspondent.
Neil just walked — tuxedoed, quiet, expression unreadable. Confident in his stride. Expectant of the future.
---
Inside the theater, the crowd hushed. The lights dimmed. The movie began.
Most of the faces from The LetterBox launch party had returned — the same polished producers, studio heads, and critics who had politely smiled through champagne flutes many months earlier, now seated shoulder to shoulder in quiet anticipation.
Spielberg was there, slipping into a corner seat beside one of the Lucasfilm executives. A few from DreamWorks, a handful of Disney's upper brass, even a couple of journalists who had promised "no spoilers, just impressions."
They exchanged nods, brief acknowledgments, but no one spoke. The energy in the room was too strange — reverent, expectant. Whatever industry noise usually filled such events was gone. It wasn't a premiere anymore; it felt like a ritual.
Each person found their seat, the last rustle of jackets dying away as the screen bloomed to life.
---
The first notes pulled the audience into silence. Bruce Willis appeared—calm but weary—grounding the film with his quiet authority. Toni Collette's raw nerves cracked hearts open.
But it was Cole who changed the air.
He appeared in the church, a small frame against the shadows. He moved with the unease of a child who saw too much. His eyes—blue, sharper than they should be—flickered toward the stained glass, then back down, as if he could see through both.
The audience whispered. The shift was immediate. This wasn't the comic relief kid actor they expected. This was something different.
---
Next Scene: Cole sat across from his mother at breakfast. Toni's voice quivered, desperate for connection. Neil's gaze didn't flinch; his voice carried the weight of secrets no child should bear.
The camera lingered on his eyes—bluer, clearer, as if glass had been polished. In them, the audience saw not a child breaking down, but one carrying the grief of others.
Somewhere in the audience, a critic scribbled: "Preternatural stillness — unnerving."
---
Next Scene: Cole climbed the staircase at a friend's party, the hallway narrowing into dread. He whispered to himself, trembling but moving forward anyway. His breath fogged the air. His fear was naked, but so was his determination.
The audience leaned in, every cough in the theater stifled. By the time the scene exploded into terror, people gasped aloud. Afraid for Cole's life; their primal instinct of protecting their own awoken.
---
Then came the most important scene. Cole lay pale against the red sheets, tubes and wires around him in the white-walled room.
Bruce leaned in close, his face soft with trust.
And then Neil's voice cut through: calm, measured, terrible.
"I see dead people."
The line dropped like ice—cold and shrill.
His eyes—sapphire-bright—caught the audience, pulled them in. For a heartbeat, they forgot Malcolm was even in the room. The script vanished. The dots remained unconnected.
"They don't know they're dead," Cole said softly, glancing sideways, afraid of judgment.
He waited for the adult's rational denial, but none came. He looked back at Malcolm—serious, trusting.
"When do you see them?" Malcom asked.
Cole's eyes gained a spark. He seemed willing and calm again.
"...All the time."
Gasps rippled row by row. Hands covered mouths. Parents held their children tighter.
Mitchell dabbed his eyes, whispering, "Brilliant, absolutely brilliant." Claire gripped Phil's hand until his knuckles whitened. Phil cried the most, unsure whether the pain was physical or emotional.
Shyamalan didn't skim through Cole's scene as he told the director. He kept all of it in. He trusted his own judgement of the audience's reaction.
---
Next Scene: Cole sat in the car, voice trembling but steady as he told his mother what her mother wanted her to know. His eyes were different now—not frightened, but certain. Older somehow.
Toni's sobbing response cracked the audience wide open. You could hear sniffles across the theater, muffled sobs, the sound of people breaking.
Neil's gaze didn't waver. He spoke as if truth were his only tool, no longer afraid of it. His performance showed progress: from stammering child to reluctant messenger. The audience felt the arc without realizing it.
---
Climax: Finally, Bruce's quiet confession—the truth he had never faced, the wife he had never left behind. His voice broke, and Cole's silent presence in the voiceovers gave it weight.
As Bruce wept, the screen softened, colors bleeding into white.
The fade lingered. A silence stretched through the theater, not uncomfortable but profound.
---
Then. Applause shattered the quiet.
The theater erupted in a standing ovation.
People surged forward, congratulating Shyamalan, praising the genius of his direction, the eerie brilliance of his child star.
Badump—
Then the music returned. That eerie theme. Louder now. The screen flickered back to life, as if the matrix itself glitched. Credits vanished.
Gasps cut through the chatter. The audience turned back.
"What's happening?"
"Post-credit in a horror drama? That's crazy!"
"Maybe behind-the-scenes footage?"
Producers in the front row were stumped. Their collective thought echoed: The movie had a post-credit scene? What is Shyamalan doing? Is he crazy?
The applause had barely died when the first low cello notes crept back through the speakers — slow, pulsing, deliberate.
At first, people thought it was a technical error. Then the house lights dimmed again.
The air shifted.
Conversations froze mid-sentence.
Someone whispered, "Is this part of it?"
Onscreen, the black field flickered to gray. Static. A faint hum, like a tape reel catching. The projector light wavered, throwing ghost shapes across the velvet walls.
A white frame cut through the noise. A hand quietly pinning the news paper cutout on the board.
NEWS CLIPPING — LOCAL PAPER
Grainy photograph. Bent rails, smoking cars. Headline bleeding through in bold letters:
TRAIN WRECK KILLS 32. The date — circled three times in red marker.
The sound of wind seeped into the theater, hollow and directionless.
On screen. The camera drifted — handheld, uneasy — to a cluttered corkboard. Pins, strings, yellowed notes.
At its center, two photographs of Malcolm — identical except for expression.
One smiling, one… not.
Audience gasped. What is it? Why are there two Malcoms?
The light above the table flickered, washing the faces in alternating life and death.
Then. A low male voice — older, steady — filled the room, close as breath.
Cole's voice. An older Cole.
"They're everywhere."
The cello deepened to a single vibrating note, filling the room's spine.
A hand, pale and trembling, reaching across a scarred wooden table.
The camera followed in shallow focus, the edges breathing in and out of blur.
Fingers brushed over dust, over an old photograph, then closed around a business card.
It scraped as it lifted, catching the light. Rust streaked the edges. A corner smeared with dried blood.
On its surface — faint but visible — a green clover emblem. Below it, a number scrawled in pencil. No name.
The hand held it still for a beat, and as the score swelled, the clover began to glow—faintly at first, then brighter, pulsing with each beat of the cello.
The frame tightened. The glow filled the lens.
The light sputtered once—twice—then exploded across the screen.
Everything went white. Then black.
The music cut. The silence after was absolute — electric.
In that void, new words appeared, slow and deliberate, one line at a time:
Special Story Credit
M. Night Shyamalan
and Neil Dunphy
The theater stayed frozen for several seconds after the last letter faded.
Then came the sounds — gasps, nervous laughter, whispered, "What did we just see?"
A few people clapped. Others stood trying to piece together the fragments: the newspaper cutting, the voice, the clover.
"Was that Cole? Older? Sixteen? Seventeen?"
"Will there be a sequel? What was that train accident? Are there different kinds of ghosts?"
Neil sat perfectly still, legs swinging lightly beneath his seat, face lit by the projector's final glow.
The reflected light caught his eyes — blue, glassy, unreadable.
Now it begins, he thought.
---
Interviews
Claire (smiling, hands clasped too tight):
"I think every mom tells herself her kid is special. But tonight? Sitting in that theater… watching Neil hold an entire room of adults breathless for two hours? Yeah. That's when I realized—he's not just my little boy anymore. He's… the kid who sees dead people."
(exhales, then adds quickly)
"Also, it was PG-13. But I had to cover my own eyes twice. How did Touchstone even get that rating?"
Phil (grinning ear to ear):
"You know when people say, 'One day my kid's gonna be on the big screen'? Yeah, well—mine literally did it. With Bruce Willis. BRUCE. WILLIS."
Jay (arms crossed, unimpressed but glowing inside):
"Six years old (almost), already working for Disney. The kid's got the genes. Pritchett genes. Steel nerves, perfect timing, good jawline. Honestly, Willis should thank him. He carried more than half of the movie."
(shrugs)
"Though if I ever hear him whisper 'I see dead people' in my house, he's grounded till college."
Mitchell (dramatic, half-teary laugh):
"I've seen a lot of great performances in New York. I've cried at some of them. But that little blanket scene? The eyes? The tremble? Forget Broadway—this was art."
(leans closer to the camera)
"And can we just acknowledge that my nephew's first co-star was Bruce Willis while I'm still waiting for someone to recognize me at Starbucks? And what was that post-credit scene credit. Did my nephew just write his first screenplay? He must get it from me. After all, I wrote the famous gay-rendition of Romeo & Juliet in college. It was a hit."
Phil (jumping back in, overexcited):
"I'm just saying, he gets that from me. The presence. The showmanship. The hairline. That's Dunphy Star!"
(pause) "Okay, not the hairline, but everything else."
Claire (flat, sipping coffee):
"Phil, you cried before the opening credits."
Phil:
"I was moved!"
Claire:
"The studio logo hadn't even faded yet."
Jay (deadpan):
"He cried when the lights went down. Thought they'd lost power."
Mitchell (smirking):
"Classic Phil."
Claire (softly, smiling now):
"But really… it was magic. Watching the audience react to him. Seeing his eyes on that giant screen — those blue eyes that used to stare at cereal boxes and CNBC like they were the universe — and realizing everyone else was finally seeing what we always did."
"He's still our kid. But now… he belongs to the world too. Not sure I'm on board with that yet."
---
Cutaway to Neil in the LA theater, standing under freverent gazes, silent, calm, eyes glimmering blue under the lights.
'Halfway through the first phase of my debut. Let's show the world why dad calls me a Wall Street Wizard and Tech Mogul next..'
---
Cindy (interview, seated elegantly, glass of champagne in hand):
"I'll be honest… I didn't believe in the movie at first. A child psychologist, ghosts, whispering kids—come on, it sounded like Halloween meets group therapy."
(gives a soft laugh, then sighs)
"But that ending… that twist. It just flipped everything. The post-credit scene? Genius. Suddenly everyone's talking about it—producers, agents, directors. Phones will soon be ringing off the hook. I can tell."
(leans forward, eyes gleaming)
"Neil was already being whispered about for something huge after last year's LetterBox launch party, but the deal hasn't been finalized yet. I think now they'll be eager to meet all his demands. I'm not at liberty to say, but let's just say the interest is Spielberg-level."
(she smiles, tilting her glass)
"The movie will be a cult classic. I was wrong. Completely wrong. And Neil on-spot. The young director did something that people with decades of experience couldn't — he made the audience feel something new."
She pauses, then her phone buzzes on the table beside her. She glances down.
Cindy (lifting her brows):
"Speaking of miracles…"
She answers. Her tone softens instantly.
"Hello?"
She listens. Her eyes widen.
"Mr. Spielberg! Oh—yes, yes, of course. He's right here with his parents."
Cut to Claire and Phil in the powder room, frozen mid-snack. Cindy puts the phone on speaker.
"Sorry I couldn't meet you in person after the premiere. You were stuck in the tsunami of people. But I had to congratulate you. Neil's performance… it was extraordinary. He doesn't act — he exists in front of the camera. There's a purity there you can't direct."
"... I'll be in touch soon. There's a project I'm developing — and I think he might be perfect for it."
The line clicks. The room holds its breath.
Cindy looks at the camera, her glare meaningful.
Phi (whispering): "Was that… the actual Spielberg?"
Claire (stunned): "Yes, Phil. Don't be surprised, we saw him last year at LetterBox launch party."
Phil (grinning): "But our son just got scouted by the guy who invented childhood. How can I not be excited."
Jay (deadpan, off-camera): "Hmph. Hopefully this one pays better than the ghost movie."
---
Cindy's interview continues — same lighting, same champagne.
"And if that wasn't enough, guess who called next just few minutes later?"
(she lifts her phone, flashing the screen: CONAN O'BRIEN SHOW)
"Apparently, they want him back on the show. This time, not just for laughs — for legacy. We already had promotion planned but I guess a Conan can be inserted in the mix. I'll have to talk to Bruce's agent now."
(she leans back before leaving the room, smiling)
"I think I finally understand who I'm representing. My work just quadrupled within few hours."
---
Neil (quietly, to himself):
"Cool. Let's go. Let's just get this over with."
He sets the cup down as the premiere audience and reporters light up outside. Crazy and about to explode with all there questions.
The music swells and the cast enters the stage.
---
"COLE! COLE! HERE"
"Mr. SHYAMALAN. HOW DID YOU THINK OF WRITING THE SCRIPT?"
"Mr. DIRECTOR. WILL THERE BE A SEQUEL? IS MALCOM ALIVE OR DEAD?"
---
AN: Hope you enjoyed the 2800 words treat. Too much is happening in the story and putting all of it and still keeping the same pace is becoming hard within 2000 words. It has been a while since I did interviews too, maybe I went overboard. (╹ڡ╹ )
AN: Since we are near the Blockbuster Debut Saga end. I'll take some time and publish multiple chapters (max two installments of chapters) to let this volume end at a high note with the Neil Dunphy name etched deep into Hollywood's history. I need to dig some research into 72nd Academy Awards and also tie up all lose ends of the Y2K phenomenon and dotcom bubble as well as brainstorm Volume 2. So wait for a couple of days. Love 💓