The Seventh Sense

The horrifying sequel M. Night Shyamalan is probably making now that his blockbuster is 20 years old

COLE SEAR and his mother, LYNN, sit at an outdoor café, drinking coffee. COLE is a cherubic young man with the same heartbreaking wariness he had as a boy. LYNN is, you know, a mom.

COLE
(leans across the table toward Lynn)
Momma, I’m ready to tell you my new secret.

LYNN
(stress-eats half her croissant)
What is it?

COLE
You know that table over there?

LYNN
Yes.

COLE
Someone’s sitting at it.

A CRONE IN HER EARLY FORTIES, hair threaded revoltingly with gray, sits two tables over, reading the new Ann Patchett novel.

Lynn looks at her, then turns slowly back to her son.

LYNN
Oh my God. You can see her too?

COLE
Yes.

LYNN
Cole, you’re scaring me. All over again.

COLE
They scare me too sometimes.

LYNN
They?

COLE
(whispers)
Women. I see… middle-aged women.

LYNN
You mean you’ve seen more than one?

COLE
They want me to do stuff for them.

LYNN
What kind of stuff?                                          

At this moment, we see CRONE wave repellently to an ATTRACTIVE, COLLEGE-AGE WAITRESS, who walks right past her and stops at a table of EVEN MORE ATTRACTIVE HIGH-SCHOOL GIRLS.

Crone sighs with annoyance, then spots Cole.

CRONE
Hi… Excuse me…

COLE
Yes?

CRONE
Whoa! I didn’t think you’d answer! It’s been ages since anyone like you…

Cole waits while she calms down.

CRONE
(Blushing at her outburst—or possibly just having a disgusting hot flash)
Do you know if they sell biscotti here?

COLE
I think I saw some near the register.

CRONE
Great—thanks! You’ve made my day, by the way.

Crone leaves her table and goes into the café.

LYNN
(shakily, to Cole)
So, this is how it goes, then? They want you to—talk to them? Treat them like they actually exist?

COLE
Most of them just don’t realize they’re middle-aged.
(beat)
You think I’m a freak?

LYNN
Look at my face.

Cole looks.

LYNN
(with supreme effort, manages to smile like someone who’s just met a talking squirrel)
I would never think that about you.
(beat)
It’s just…this isn’t supposed to happen to people your age. Until recently, I didn’t see middle-aged women myself. And as a guy? Unless you’re married, you shouldn’t see them till you’re really, really old.

As Lynn speaks, a 90-YEAR-OLD SILVER FOX approaches the café, leaning on the arm of his NURSE. He treats Lynn to a slow, sexy wink.

A shudder goes through her.

COLE
Momma? What is it?

LYNN
(struggling not to panic)
Cole, is there a middle-aged woman talking to you right now?

He stares into his Americano.

LYNN
Tell me!

COLE
Ye-es.

LYNN
Where… is… she?

COLE
(beaten)
Across the table from me.

Lynn’s breathing comes fast. Her eyes dart. At last, when she can resist no longer, she looks next to her coffee mug and sees, with a suppressed scream, her own copy of the Patchett novel. Then she glances down at her outfit and we watch her terror crescendo.

LYNN
I didn’t know! I didn’t realize! The J. Jill tunics. The Dansko clogs. BritBox. Could I—could I be…
(gazes beseechingly at Cole)

Cole nods, a world of pity in his eyes.

LYNN
(like she’s falling through an open manhole)
I don’t understand. I’m only 35.

COLE
(gently)
That’s true. But this is a movie, so you’re playing 53.

FADE TO BLACK:

THE END

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