Night Stalker

“Is this gonna remind me of how much I hate committed relationships?” says the man at the next table. Immediately, I am intrigued. Is he about to confirm every negative thing I’ve ever assumed about men? I love when they do that. I glance sideways – great hair, oddly perfect two to three days of stubble he definitely spends a lot of time on, Australian accent. I could see myself wanting him to commit to me. His clothes are effortlessly hipster, he’s wearing thick-rimmed glasses, and he’s eating vegan lentil dahl— he may in fact be a paid advertisement for the cafe we’re sitting outside of. It’s called 26 Grains, and it serves overpriced lunch and coffee to London’s finest. On this day, I fit into the image of 26 Grains almost as well as this guy does. I’m sitting alone, reading Faulkner, and eating avocado toast—the Faulkner is for school, but I know how it looks.

The guy and his equally hip but not equally hot friend are catching up. “Rob, man, it has been too long,” says the other one when Mr. No-Commitment sits down. So, his name is Rob. I hope he’ll reveal his friend’s name, but he never does. Rob and Not Rob are talking about their girlfriends. “Imagine your girl—sorry, I’ve forgot her name,” says Not Rob.

Rob reminds him: “Georgie.”

“Right, so Georgie, imagine she’s texting other guys, but just because it’s a habit from these last few years, doesn’t mean anything. That wouldn’t be a big deal, right?”

Rob assures him that this hypothetical situation would not upset him at all, and Not Rob goes on about his own girlfriend and her unreasonable reaction to the fact that Not Rob constantly texts other women. “And of course she’s crushed, you know, because she’s young.”

Rob nods knowingly throughout. I have stopped pretending to read Faulkner—this is some of the best people-watching I’ve ever experienced. I have to write it down.

Rob is moving from Melbourne to London soon, and Georgie is coming with him. Not Rob and Not Rob’s girlfriend are moving in together too. Mostly, they complain, and then suddenly Rob leans back in his chair made of recycled water bottles and says,

“Do you ever just stop and think though, just stop and think about how much you fucking love her?”

I could never have predicted Not Rob’s response.

“Oh, bro, absolutely.”

And then they high fived. Across their bowls of vegan lentil dahl, they high fived to celebrate their love for their respective girlfriends. Sounds pretty committal to me, bro.

The topic of relationships is left behind in favor of their careers, both “in show business.” They talk about auditions good and bad, and the people they both know. They both say they struggle with singing in auditions, and then both actually start singing at the table. “Defying Gravity,” from Wicked, which makes no sense as a male voice audition song, but whatever. They discuss a mutual actress acquaintance who “isn’t fat, exactly, she just doesn’t look right for the part. She can sing, she just doesn’t look right.”

The more they talk, the more I want to know about them. Not Rob owns four houses, and is in debt.

“How much?”


Million, I assume. Rob is shocked, but Not Rob seems unworried. He’s planning to open a coffee shop inside an old subway car which, apparently, you can enter to win online. What a coincidence, Rob is also hoping to open a coffee shop after moving to London. There is no discussion of collaboration.

They’ve finished eating, but they are showing no signs of leaving. I was hoping to leave when they did and see where they went, but I am both late and unprepared for a class on Faulkner. I think about these two men on my walk toward school, and I realize that my lunchtime eavesdropping does not have to end simply because they’re gone and I’ll never see them again. In class, I pull out my laptop. What details can I use? Not Rob’s acting career isn’t going very well at the moment, but his brother, he mentioned, is currently in Company on the West End, as “the second boyfriend, the one with the glasses.” I Google the cast of Company, and find Not Rob’s brother: Matthew Seadon-Young. I find his Instagram account, and the bio says, “Actor. Snapper. #ishootfilm #filmphotography #filmisnotdead.” Gross. I scroll down, looking for a family photo, and there he is: Not Rob. Actually, it turns out: David.

His Instagram includes photos of theater tickets, himself, and a woman I can only assume is the one who doesn’t like his habit of texting other women. Daniela. She is an “Actor/ballet dancer,” and she could definitely do better than Not Rob/David. But I’m getting side-tracked. Back on David’s page, I click “Followers,” and search, “Rob.” David has eight followers named Rob or Robert, and the first one I click on isn’t right. Next, I try one with the verified blue Instagram check-mark next to it: @robmillsymills. It’s him, cute hipster glasses and all. He has 45 thousand followers. He is an “actor, singer, host, traveller,” and has a recurring role on the Australian soap opera ‘Neighbours.’ I switch to Wikipedia. In 2003, Rob was a finalist on Australian Idol, and since then he has released a few albums, starred in musicals in Melbourne (including Wicked), and become a TV host. David doesn’t have a Wikipedia page.

The sneaking sense of guilt at the back of my mind disappears. Yes, I’ve just spent two hours actively eavesdropping on and then virtually stalking these men, but I don’t feel bad anymore. David thinks he is famous, and Rob actually is. They want to be cyber-stalked.

Until the dawn of social media, “stalking” was a word with very serious connotations. Stalkers were truly delusional people, like the guy who shot Ronald Reagan not because he had anything against Ronald Reagan, but because he wanted Jodie Foster to notice him. Or the guy who claimed that he’d spoken to God about his destined relationship with Selena Gomez. In 2006, a Roman Catholic Priest famously stalked Conan O’Brien. With the exception of the Reagan shooter, the majority of well-known celebrity stalkers never commit acts of violence. Generally, they are arrested for sending explicit or threatening letters, or for attempting to enter a building where their target is known to be. This is not to belittle their stalking— they did a very good job, given the resources at their disposal. Now, however, stalkers of celebrities need not send paper letters or physically follow their targets. Now, I can spend twenty minutes on Instagram and find Rob’s job, girlfriend, girlfriend’s bikini pictures, and next public appearance. People use Twitter to monitor celebrities’ movements, posting updates for the express purpose of allowing other fans to go out and find their idols. I don’t need to write letters because I can send messages through Instagram—I can, and I have. My unanswered direct messages to @robmillsymills are a monument to my insignificance.

Why do I care about Rob Mills, Australian soap star? Why did I listen so intently to his conversation in the first place? Why is my first instinct to turn to the internet and find out more? The spectrum of obsession which ranges from eavesdropping to casual internet research to full-on stalking is one that encompasses, probably, everyone on Earth. We’ve all engaged in people-watching, and if you haven’t Googled the guy you just matched with on Tinder, you’ve thought about it. My treatment of Rob and Not Rob from 26 Grains is not so unusual—I execute online investigative missions like that all the time. I need to up my game, challenge myself, and while Rob might be fun to stalk in earnest, he lives in Australia. I need somebody a little more conveniently located. I can’t stalk a totally normal person, because that is creepy and likely uninteresting, so a certain level of fame is necessary. In or around Philadelphia. Vaguely to wildly famous. Hopefully amenable to finding out they’re being stalked if I take it too far.


  1. Night Shyamalan grew up in Philadelphia, and lives in Chester County, Pennsylvania, with his wife and three daughters. He’s a filmmaker, mostly psychological thrillers, but he also co-wrote Stuart Little. Almost every one of his sixteen films deals with some aspect of the supernatural, and almost all were filmed and take place in Philadelphia or the surrounding countryside. Shyamalan writes movies about ghosts, aliens, and, most famously, a little boy who sees dead people. He makes movies that people love, and a few that people really hate. His most iconic films share a sense of slow, looming terror—jump scares are so rare that you start craving them, if only to escape the feeling that something is right behind you. He loves confusing but undeniably important foreshadowing, and he uses the same cryptic symbols across his movies. Usually, these symbols are bright colors – bright red means something important is about to happen. Yellow is bad luck. He goes by “Night.”

Night’s most hated films are, indeed, bad. There was a serious rough patch between 2008 and 2013 (some would say it started with “Lady in the Water,” in 2006, but Night himself still maintains that he loves that movie). However, some fans stuck by his side through it all, and they were rewarded for their dedication in 2015, when “The Visit” came out. It was no “The Sixth Sense,” but it did pretty well at the box office, and it helped people to forget Shyamalan’s atrocious live-action version of “The Last Airbender” (2010). Night is clearly dedicated to his fans—maybe because he knows he gave them several reasons to defect.


I’m lost. I turn right onto a dirt road, hoping to turn the car around, and after about a hundred yards I pull over next to a green metal gate tied shut with a rope. It is only three in the afternoon but I notice that the almost-full moon is rising over the farm beyond the gate. I’m getting out of the car to take a picture—rolling fields, crisp blue winter sky, faint moon that definitely won’t show up on my iPhone camera—and I step on something. I trip a little and look down. It’s a deer’s leg. Severed. There’s very little blood, and it looks pretty fresh. The rest of the deer is nowhere to be seen. I feel as though I may have driven my borrowed car into a horror movie. Deer leg means dismembered deer means a crazy axe murderer who’s ready to graduate from deer to women. I’m getting back in the car to flee when a muddy black Jeep with larger-than-necessary wheels pulls up behind me, blocking the way back to the road. My heart skips a beat. It is Saturday afternoon, the sky is cloudless blue for the first time in weeks, and I am about to be attacked by a deer-murdering weirdo. The window rolls down. I brace myself for death. A man leans out. I feel bad for whoever trips over my severed leg later.

On second thought, he’s not really a man. He’s a teenager, maybe seventeen. Black and red flannel shirt with a fur ear-flap hat. He nods almost imperceptibly and says, “Yo, you’re in our smoke spot.” His passenger-seat friend leans forward, offering a similar nod. I apologize, but he’s already rolling up the window. “Wait!” I say. He’s driving away. “Wait! Do you know where M. Night Shyamalan lives?”

I’ve been looking for his house. I have been driving around for a while with no luck, in a white Kia Forte I found on a car-sharing app that lets people rent their cars out when they’re not using them. I put in the hours I needed the car, picked the one that was parked closest to my house, entered my driver’s license number, and twenty-four hours later I was driving away. It was, honestly, way too easy. Technically, I know how to drive, but Taylor, a person I’ve never met, owner of this Kia Forte, would definitely never have let me drive his car if he ever saw me try to parallel park. Taylor, whoever he is, has a very clean car, and his preset radio stations are all classical music. The only thing in the car is a gorilla mask, or actually what looks like the head section of a full gorilla suit, in the backseat.

I had a feeling the address I found online wouldn’t be quite right—the photos of Mr. Shyamalan’s mansion from his 2012 Architectural Digest profile include tennis courts that were absent from the bird’s-eye-view on Google Maps. Maybe, I hoped, they’re just hidden by trees. I followed this hope out to a potential address in Willistown, Pennsylvania. The small driveway was on a blind corner and I passed it the first time. I looked back. No gate. This is a bad sign; famous people always have gates. I turn around and follow the long, narrow driveway until I see a barn through the trees, and then a big farmhouse. I drive around the back of the barn, expecting to be yelled at. I rehearse in my head: “So sorry, I thought this was renowned filmmaker M. Night Shyamalan’s fabulous mansion, but it’s just your creepy farm.” Or, perhaps, “So sorry, I got lost and I’m just turning around really elaborately.” But there’s no one there. No one comes out of the barn, and there aren’t any cars. The house is dark.

Driving away from the silent farm, I think about the day I’ve had so far. A mysterious animal leg, a strange encounter on a dirt road, a big, lonely farmhouse. If you’ve seen Shyamalan’s 2002 film Signs, you know where this is going. I almost feel like Shyamalan himself wrote the script for this day, taunting me with moments that mirror his movies. I glance much more often than necessary at the rear-view mirror, but I’m not quite sure what I’m looking for. Perhaps a car following me, or a three-legged deer.


A blind young woman, Ivy, is running through the woods. Her protectors have abandoned her, and she’s just been attacked by a monstrous creature in a red cloak. Ivy stumbles over her own yellow cloak, running even after the creature succumbs to her trap, and has fallen down a deep hole to its death. She’s never dared enter these woods before – no one ever has. She’s lived her whole life in the Village, afraid of the woods. There is an agreement with the red-cloak creatures. They are not to enter the woods. Sometimes, when the young forget, the creatures come and slash red marks into doors and leave skinned animals as a warning to the villagers. But Ivy has just discovered it’s all a lie. The creatures are just the elders of the Village in costume, maintaining the legend to stop people from leaving. And beyond the woods, beyond an ivy-covered brick wall, is an even bigger secret: the modern world. In the 1970s, University of Pennsylvania history professor Edward Walker (William Hurt) founded The Village as a place to live unburdened by the outside world, a place to hide from his grief and his pain. He cut a deal with the government to keep the Walker Wildlife Preserve isolated, and he lied to his blind daughter her entire life. It’s the kind of deal disillusioned history professors are always cutting with the government.

I’m slumped on my couch watching this, The Village, while scrolling Twitter on my phone. I watch Ivy scramble over the brick wall, desperate to find medicine for a sick man who doesn’t know he’s lived his whole life within reach of a modern hospital. She encounters a young security guard, who agrees to help her. The head park ranger explains the lengths Edward Walker went to in order to keep his utopia of the past a secret, and the things the park rangers do to maintain the lie. The ranger is played by Night himself, though you never see his face.

In the movie, Edward Walker couldn’t handle his life. His father was murdered, and what started as a grief counseling group became a desperate bid for protection from the world, whatever it took. He let people die of “incurable” 19th-century diseases, and sent costumed men into the forest to terrorize his own people. He hung skinned, dismembered animals above doorways. And all for the sake of staying hidden. He hasn’t escaped violence, or death, but he has escaped surveillance –– he can do what he wants because no one can see. He built a world where he is in charge, a world where no one has any way of learning the truth. No internet, no phone, not even an inkling that something might be wrong. No way to know that the Village is a lie.


I’m back in Taylor’s Kia Forte, on my way to Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania. When I texted Taylor through the car share app to ask where exactly the car was parked, he said no one else had borrowed it since I last used it. I went back to where I’d left it and it was there, but the gorilla mask was no longer in the back seat. Google Maps is leading me to a set of coordinates I found on the set location The Village. I turn onto Cossart Road—very narrow, very windy—and pull over when my phone says, “you’ve arrived.”  I get out of the car, take out my phone, and press “lock” on the app. A second later, I hear the locks flip in the car doors. I step down into the ditch on the side of the road, then clamber up the other side and through a fence. It’s almost six and the sun is low in the cloudless sky, casting long shadows from behind the tops of the trees. I walk across the field and down a steep slope, into the woods. I keep my eyes on the ground, looking out for the severed legs of woodland creatures. This is where Ivy—the actress Bryce Dallas Howard—ran from the creature. I walk back up the slope and out into the middle of the field. There’s no trace of the 2003 film set. The village featured in the movie was built entirely by the film crew, and then destroyed afterward, so all that’s left is a field and a patch of woods. What did they do with the set village? Did they throw it away? Move it somewhere else? I walk back toward the road, but when I get there I wander away from the car, hoping to run into somebody. I walk for about fifteen minutes and don’t see a single car, and the few houses I pass are set back from the road. It’s almost dark at this point, so I walk back in the other direction, get into the Kia Forte, and start driving home.


Mr. Shyamalan’s Twitter is pretty average, for a famous screenwriter and director. He posts updates on his films in progress, makes casting announcements, and congratulates other celebrities on their projects. He also posts about Philadelphia sports. The 76ers gave him some sweet custom sneakers. It’s actually somewhat disappointing, considering the types of movies he makes and the cult following they’ve inspired. He could have a really weird, cryptic Twitter presence if he wanted to. His posts are full of updates on his writing process and promises of new material, coming soon. On May 23rd, 2017, he tweeted:

“I spend the first 3 hrs of most days rewriting… Confronting the fact that I have betrayed the story a 1000 ways & trying to make amends.”

But Night doesn’t just tweet weird, sad apologies for his artistic betrayal. He also posts pictures. Pictures of backstage passes to “Glass,” of the stage at Comic Con Russia, of the cheeseburgers he just finished grilling, and, on November 3rd, 2018, of his ballot envelope. “Official Election Mail” it says, and it’s addressed to “Chester County Voter Services.” The top left corner reads, in truly atrocious handwriting, “M. Night Shyamalan.” The rest of the return address is blacked out. Or, like, mostly blacked out. The last two digits of the zip code are only partially obscured, and I zoom in and figure them out pretty easily. The bottom fourth of the first three letters of the town name are also peeking out.

As a resident of eastern Pennsylvania, I already know the first two digits of the zip code. I look up zip codes in the general vicinity, according to Architectural Digest, of the Shyamalan residence, and I’m almost positive about digit number three. With that, I have a zip code. I zoom into the area on Google Maps, looking for a town name that might fit those first three half-obscured letters. None of them are quite right, but I’m in a small enough area now that I can just start looking. I switch Google Maps to “satellite” view. I pull up the Architectural Digest profile on the house to remind myself what exactly I’m looking for. “Filmmaker M. Night Shyamalan enlivens a storied Georgian Revival house near Philadelphia with a romantic array of English architectural styles,” apparently. I scroll through photos of the interior, which, though both lavish and tasteful, is useless to me. Finally, a photo of the outside – or, more accurately, “the rear facade of the main house.” Not only is there more than one facade, there is more than one house. The next few photos are key: a tennis court, a basketball court, a pool, and some ornate garden hedge artistry. All outside, and all quite visible thanks to Google’s satellite cameras. Back on my Google Maps tab, I start combing the zip code. I find a school, a lot of fields, a country club, and a correctional facility, but no Shyamalan mansion. Just as I’m about to give up—famous people probably don’t put their home addresses on their ballot envelopes anyway—I zoom a little outside the alleged boundaries of the zip code, and there it is. The basketball and tennis courts, the blue pool, the curlicue hedges. The vast, red roof of the giant Georgian Revival.

I found it.


Taylor’s Kia Forte isn’t available today. Luckily, someone named Annie owns five 2018 Hyundai Elantras, and they’re all parked in a lot six blocks from my apartment. I reserve one and prepare to drive west, once again, into the suburbs.

This time, though, my destination is very specific. My phone will lead me to a dropped pin on what I’m pretty sure is M. Night Shyamalan’s driveway, although the actual turn off the main road is obscured by trees in the satellite images. As I walk down Market Street towards the fleet of Hyundai Elantras, it starts to rain. I get in the car, struggle to figure out how to turn on the rear windshield wipers, get out of the car to check if an Elantra even has rear windshield wipers, realize it doesn’t, and get back in the car. I drive for about forty minutes, past the edge of West Philadelphia and into semi-rural Pennsylvania’s equal distribution of run-down farms and fancy houses.

I pull over into a turn-off area to look at Google Maps on my phone. Within thirty seconds, there’s a sharp rap on the window. I jump in my seat and look up at a police officer. I didn’t even notice him drive up behind me. This is the part of the horror movie where the young girl misses her chance to survive – the nice, smiling, small-town cop stands in the rain and offers her help, but she says no thank you. She’s curious, she wants to see what happens next. She lies to him and drives away. She doesn’t come back. A million thoughts race through my mind. Is this allowed? I ask myself, without any idea of what I mean by “this.” I’m not doing anything wrong, and I definitely don’t look suspicious. I’m a twenty-two year old woman wearing a bright yellow raincoat –– it doesn’t scream “stalker.” Plus, stalking is harmless. I’m just curious, I’m not going to do anything. I realize that I didn’t put the car in park, I’ve just been holding down the brake as I look my phone – is that illegal?

I roll down my window. He looks like the young security guard from The Village.

“Are you all right?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine, I’m just figuring out where I’m going.”

“Can I help you find something?”

“No, that’s ok, I’m just looking for where they filmed The Village, but I think I figured it out,” I say, as if doesn’t provide precise coordinates for that set location.

The Village?” says the cop, surprised. “People are usually looking for where they filmed Marley and Me. And a lot of people ask me how to get to Martha Stewart’s house, but I’ll let you in on a secret—she doesn’t really live there.”

Clearly, this young police officer is hoping to tell me where I can find Martha Stewart’s empty home. I thank him, and he says “Have fun!” before walking back to his car, brushing raindrops off of his hair with his hand, and driving away. I wait until he’s definitely gone before I make a wildly miscalculated u-turn, the right wheels of the Elantra skidding into the ditch on the side of the road as I head back the way I came.

As I get closer to my target, I start staring out the side window, looking for the big brick house which is objectively still almost a mile away. This method of driving is, it turns out, quite dangerous, and I have to swerve out of the way of oncoming traffic multiple times.

I pass what I thought would be Night’s driveway, but it seems to lead to a large green and white horse barn. A little further on, I squint through a tall hedge and see, through some trees, a large red roof. The rest of the house is obscured by the rise of the surrounding field.

I turn left in an attempt to keep the house in sight, but it has disappeared behind more trees. Just to the left of the road, there is a large dog agility training course. About fifty yards from the road, a hunched figure in a raincoat is leading three massive fluffy white dogs up and down ramps, over jumps. All very agile. My brain wildly assumes that M. Night Shyamalan must own this dog course next to his house, and that this person training dogs in the rain is the filmmaker himself. As I get closer, I see that the trainer is an older white woman in red floral-printed galoshes. She probably knows him, though.

I turn left again, completing a circle around the house, which sits inconveniently far away from the road on all sides, and the red roof comes back into view. I drive a full circle around Shyamalan’s property two more times, looking for the driveway, and conclude that he must share the entrance with the big horse barn, the driveway of which is blocked by a tall, closed gate.

I decide the car is only holding me back, and so I turn down a gravel road, hoping to find a place I might park. After only a minute I see a sign. “Kirkwood Wildlife Preserve Hiking Trails.” I pull over into the three-space parking lot and park in front of a sign that says “Important Bird Area.” The trail leads up a very small hill that rises slightly up out of the surrounding farmland, and I wonder if the house—which should be just a little ways past the other side of the road–would be visible from the top. I set off through the rain, my shoes sinking into mud as I walk through very tall grass. When I reach the top of the hill I still can’t see the house, so I skid back down the hill, hopping over a stream and climbing through a fence, until I reach the road, then walk along the hedge behind which I know he lives.

The rain is letting up, and as my feet move over wet gravel, I look down. I stop in my tracks, staring at the ground. There, on the side of the road, is an antler. An antler, severed from a deer’s scalp, perhaps. Or, more likely in this case, a reindeer. It is light brown, cut cleanly at its base, and it is made of felt. Like it came from a stuffed animal, or a decorative Christmas headband.

Further along the road, I’m as close to the house as I can get on this side of the very thick hedge. Immediately on the other side is a fence, and every picture I try to take through the hedge is ruined by the chainlink. I find a thin area in the branches and crouch down, crawling through as twigs catch at my hair. There, kneeling in mud under a hedge, I stick my phone through the fence and snap a few photos of the house. They’re blurry, and you can only see the roof. I wonder for a second whether it is illegal to take photos of private homes, or to crawl through hedges. Looking back the way I came, I try to time my exit to avoid any passing cars, but I fail miserably and stumble out of the hedge just as a line of three cars and a FedEx truck pass by. I doubt that anyone would stop— people probably emerge suddenly from M. Night Shyamalan’s hedge all the time—but I definitely look ridiculous walking back up the road in my yellow raincoat, mud all over the knees of my jeans.

I start walking back to the car on the other side of the road to throw them off the scent, whoever “they” are. I’m following the fence that surrounds the wildlife preserve when I see a rectangular object on the ground. Bending down, I see that it’s a small notebook, the kind with the spiral binding at the top of the lined pages, lying cover-down in the wet grass. The cardboard back displays the brand name “Mead.” I pick it up. I’m praying to find pages and pages of movie ideas, but also terrified I’ll find scrawled notes like, “claire huffman. brown hair, blue eyes” or “car reserved 2-7pm,” or the license plate of the car that’s not mine. I’ve left a digital trail every step of the way, from the Google Maps searches to my Twitter history, and I know the car has a GPS tracker. I used it myself this morning to find the right parking lot. I flip through the notebook. The pages are all stuck together, but I can tell it is blank. I take it anyway.

Standing on the side of the road that separates the Shyamalan mansion from the Kirkwood Wildlife Preserve, clutching a blank, soggy notebook, I can’t stop thinking how M. Night cast himself as the faceless head of security in his own movie about a retro-utopia hidden away in the center of a Pennsylvania wildlife preserve. And how that same year, he bought this house next to a Pennsylvania wildlife preserve. And how, of course, the young woman in yellow who dared trespass into his woods was attacked by a creature in red.

I shake my head, trying to laugh at myself, and raindrops fly off the end of my ponytail.

I look across the field at the Hyundai Elantra, and I wonder what would happen if I just didn’t return it. If I kept driving west. Once the car share app notices that I’m not back when I said I would be, they could pull up the car’s GPS history and trace it out of a parking lot on Market Street, straight into the suburbs, where I pulled over for a couple of minutes to have my moment of scruples. A U-turn, past a historic covered bridge, left turn. Left turn again, and again, and again, and again. Three loops around a big, fancy house, and then park by the side of the road for over an hour. By the time they’ve checked this: halfway to Pittsburgh.

They know I’m running. They look at my account to see if they can figure out why, and read in my file that I’ve driven Taylor’s Kia Forte to this same area twice in the last month. They also see my name and my address, which I entered to find the closest available cars. They see the scan of my drivers’ license that I had to upload – my photo, my birthday, my parents’ address in Oregon. They show up at my apartment. The lock is easy to pick, and there is my laptop, on the table in the living room. They have ways of getting around passcodes, and they’re searching my internet history within seconds.

Google Earth

Architectural Digest

Every single day:

“M. Night Shyamalan”

“M. Night Shyamalan wife”

“M. Night Shyamalan address”

“M. Night Shyamalan’s house”

“M. Night Shyamalan conspiracy?”

“Where does M. Night Shyamalan live?”