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Sleepy Hollow
An UGLY MAN charges through on a horse, holding a lantern
forward on a long pole. He looks back, terrified.
INSERT TITLE:
1799 Sleepy Hollow, New YorkTHUNDEROUS HOOFBEATS are HEARD behind.
The ugly man glances back again. His lantern swings wild...
SHATTERS against a tree. The jammed-up pole SLAMS the ugly
man off his horse...
He hits the ground. He runs, trips, falls and scrambles up.
DEEP IN THE FOREST, we glimpse the source of the HOOFBEATS: a
HUGE FORM on a HUGE BLACK HORSE, already gone.
The ugly man pushes through thorny bushes. Jagged branches
slit his hands and cheeks.
He bursts from the briar patch and tumbles to a trail. He
lifts his bloodied face. He runs.
IN THE FOREST BEHIND: the hooves of the black horse rip
underbrush. HOOFBEATS DEAFENING. A spur digs into the
snorting steed's already bleeding flank.
The pursuer's gloved hand draws a SWORD, blade RINGING.
ON THE TRAIL, the ugly man runs on. The shrill WHISTLE of a
SWORD SWING is HEARD as the pursuer blurs past.
The ugly man is still running when his head lolls back, at an
impossible angle... tumbles off his shoulders... His headless
body hits the dirt.
Empty cobblestone streets. Crooked buildings. A RAPIDLY
CLANGING BELL breaks the silence from afar.
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New York CityTWO CONSTABLES clamor round a corner, lanterns held high,
listening. They rush into an alleyway.
ELSEWHERE, piers border the Hudson River. The BELL is
LOUDER. The two constables arrive, searching. No one around.
Constable One hefts his pistol, scared.
CONSTABLE ONE:
Where are you?!
MAN'S VOICE (o.s.)
Here! Over here!
They hurry to the river's edge. Down a hill, the MAN,
another constable, stands with his back to us. He's waist
deep in water, tossing away his ALARM BELL.
MAN:
I need your help with this.
Constable Two crosses on the peir above. Constable One moves
forward, wary. The MAN grunts, lifting something.
CONSTABLE ONE:
Constable Crane? Ichabod Crane...
is that you?
The MAN turns. Meet ICHABOD CRANE, handsome, eyes piercing.
ICHABOD:
Yes, it is me. But, not only me...
(lifting, struggling)
He drags a bloated MALE CORPSE up from the murky water.
ICHABOD:
Someone quite dead.
EXT. WATCHHOUSE/JAIL -- NIGHT
The elderly HIGH CONSTABLE lifts a blanket off the corpse on
a wheelbarrow manned by Constable Two. A snobby MAGISTRATE
looks, disgusted. Constable One and Ichabod wait.
HIGH CONSTABLE:
Burn it.
CONSTABLE ONE:
Yes, sir.
Constable Two wheels the corpse inside. Ichabod's dismayed.
ICHABOD:
Just a moment... if I may. It is
possible this man was murdered.
HIGH CONSTABLE:
ICHABOD:
There are surgical ways of telling
how he died... by the water in his
lungs...
Ichabod follows the High Constable and Magistrate in.
INT. WATCHHOUSE, NIGHT WATCH QUARTERS -- NIGHT
Constable Two wheels the body ahead past many "booking"
tables. A JAILER moves to unlock a massive door.
HIGH CONSTABLE:
statutes of health.
ICHABOD:
I could determine if he were dead
before he went into the Hudson.
HIGH CONSTABLE:
Must we again hear these heretical
rantings?
MAGISTRATE:
Yes, must we?
ICHABOD:
There is nothing heretical about
science, sir. The Chinese have
written on it for hundreds of
years... procedural study used to
solve seemingly unsolvable crimes.
The door is opened. The corpse again leads the way.
INT. WATCHHOUSE, JAIL -- NIGHT
A two-tiered prison, alive with MOANS of AGONY and CRIES of
INSANITY. Cells are full of wretched men in chains and iron
gags. Many are against the bars, watching.
ICHABOD:
Our first night watch is adequate
against fire and some violence,
but if we were more often able to
ensure justice, after the fact,
then criminals would truly have
something to fear from law
enforcement.
HIGH CONSTABLE:
Have they nothing to fear presently?
ICHABOD:
Without disrespect, look around you.
(motioning to cells)
We overflow. As do our courts.
HIGH CONSTABLE:
And, with disrespect, Constable,
if jails and courts overflow, it is
testimony to success, not failure.
ICHABOD:
But, how many innocents rot here?
And, how many victims are buried
without reprisal while guilty men
roam our streets?
The High Constable reaches a desk, taking a seat. Guards
wait to process beaten, bloody prisoners.
HIGH CONSTABLE:
Very few, if any.
ICHABOD:
Even though I have seen confessions
pried from the lips of the accused,
often quite literally?
HIGH CONSTABLE:
Federalist, your mouth reeks of
Republican liberalism.
ICHABOD:
Not Liberalism. Equanimity.
MAGISTRATE:
(to High Constable)
Um, sir... might I suggest...
The Magistrate WHISPERS in the High Constable's ear. Ichabod
notices with worry that Constables One and Two wheel the
corpse onwards into another room.
The Magistrate finishes. The High Constable smiles faintly.
HIGH CONSTABLE:
(to Ichabod)
There is a farming community
upstate, Constable... ten days
journey north in the Hudson
Highlands. It is named Sleepy
Hollow. Within a fortnight, three
persons have been murdered there.
Each with their head lopped cleanly
off.
(holds up papers)
The elders of the Hollow have sent
dispatches to me, requesting
assistance, and now, just this very
moment, I have chosen you.
ICHABOD:
Chosen me?
HIGH CONSTABLE:
These "methods" of yours... there
has been no practical application.
ICHABOD:
Not for lack of trying.
HIGH CONSTABLE:
Just so. Granted. And so you take
your experimentations to Sleepy
Hollow and catch the murderer who
has tainted the place. Bring him
here to face our good justice.
Will you do this for me?
ICHABOD:
(swallowing doubt)
I shall, gladly.
HIGH CONSTABLE:
Excellent. Then, you are excused
till morning.
Ichabod moves away, heading to where the corpse was taken.
HIGH CONSTABLE:
Oh, and, Constable...
(off Ichabod's look)
Do make certain that you meet with
success. Otherwise... perhaps you
should not come back at all.
The High Constable smiles a sardonic smile.
INT. WATCHHOUSE, INCINERATION ROOM -- NIGHT
The corpse burns in a raging furnace. Flesh sizzles.
Constable One pumps bellows which fan the flames. Ichabod
steps from darkness nearby. He watches with bitter regret as
the corpse is consumed.
EXT. CITY -- DAY
Market town streets bustle. Filthy. Pigs roam free.
INT. ICHABOD'S HOME, SECOND FLOOR -- DAY
Decorated in Early-American Mad Scientist: books, papers and
jars of chemicals. Charts of anatomy above a small bed.
ICHABOD (o.s.)
Such a day for such a sad farewell.
But, this is goodbye, my sweet.
At the window, Ichabod holds a bird cage with a red CARDINAL
inside. He opens the cage. The bird flies free.
Ichabod watches it go, then looks down. A COACH halts in the
street below. The forlorn DRIVER looks up.
INT. ICHABOD'S COACH -- DAY
In motion. Ichabod absently studies his hands, touching the
strange SCARS on both palms: evenly dispersed, tiny dots of
tissue. Many scars.
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"Sleepy Hollow" Scripts.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 6 Sep. 2024. <https://www.scripts.com/script/sleepy_hollow_631>.
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