It’s Labor Day as I write this.

From my yard, I can smell hot dogs on a nearby grill and children’s laughter drifting through the air. These sensory swan songs to summer can mean only one thing. I’m thinking of Halloween.

See, the Colonial Theater in Phoenixville is running a few horror movies through October. Halloween, of course – the gold standard of Halloween movies. But also, M. Night Shyamalan’s The Sixth Sense.

I have a deep love for M. Night Shyamalan. I’ve been to his fundraising Halloween party. I even worked out at the gym his wife owns in Exton. Yeah. I drove an hour every Sunday morning for a year to work out with M. Night Shyamalan’s wife.

You know, now that I’ve said that out loud, I realize I sound like, well, a criminal. I’m not. I swear. Which is probably what a criminal would say. Well, visit me in prison, would ya?

When The Sixth Sense was released in 1999, I saw it with friends and a boyfriend. That guy. He was not what one might call “husband material.” He wasn’t even what one might call “boyfriend material.” Anyway.

We saw The Sixth Sense late enough in its run that we knew it had a twist ending but early enough that nobody had blabbed to us what that ending was. Afterwards, I gushed to my parents about how great the movie was. The twist, I said. The twist! You’ll never guess it!

My mom is a big Moonlighting fan. A Bruce Willis movie with a glowing review proved irresistible. She, my dad, and I decided to see The Sixth Sense the next night. This was the old days, before seats could be reserved online. I remember standing in that ticket line, hoping no one would ruin the movie’s twist before Donnie Wahlberg staged a home invasion in his underpants.

We located three seats in the crowded theater. Our lineup put me in the middle. I offered to switch with my dad. “Nah,” my dad said. “You sit between me and Mom.” Um, OK?

As the movie’s plot was established, as Bruce Willis held therapy sessions with Haley Joel Osment, as pops of red flashed across the screen, my mom turned to me. “Is the twist that the little boy is Bruce Willis’ son?” my mom asked.

My mom posed her query in a normal, conversational tone.

Not a whisper. In the middle of a packed movie theater. In, what was at the time, the top movie in the country.

Moviegoers in front of us turned, scowls on their faces. Moviegoers behind us issued hushed grumbles. I shook my head no, hoping the stern look on my face might forestall further questions. It did not.

For ninety minutes, my mom loudly theorized about the twist. Is Bruce Willis the little boy’s father? Is Donnie Wahlberg the little boy? Is the little boy Bruce Willis? Is Bruce Willis the little boy? Am I mixing up The Sixth Sense and 12 Monkeys?

An hour into this, my dad leaned over and whispered in my ear. “This,” he said, “is why I had you sit in the middle.” Then he never went to the movies again. In fact, from that moment on, the only movies he’d watch had to be A) on television and B) in black and white.

Once, we wanted my dad to see Raiders of the Lost Ark at the Kimmel with The Philadelphia Orchestra playing the score. So we lied and told him it was just the orchestra. I have no problem with that lie. He absolutely enjoyed himself. And now that I’ve said all this, I’m returning my tickets for The Sixth Sense at the Colonial Theater.

Having confessed my borderline criminal activity and loud mom, I’m probably banned. Good thing there’s still Halloween. And Halloween.

Contact Wendi Rank on Instagram @wendirank