Sleepy Hollow

EXT. GNARLED FOREST -- NIGHT

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 York

THUNDEROUS 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.

EXT. CITY STREETS -- NIGHT

Empty cobblestone streets. Crooked buildings. A RAPIDLY

CLANGING BELL breaks the silence from afar.

INSERT TITLE:
New York City

TWO 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)

I found someone here...

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:

He drowned. Anyone could see.

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:

He will be burned pursuant to

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:

For one who calls himself a

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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