A Skeletal Impression of "Fengriffen."

Valancourt Books

Back in the 1980s, I considered "Fengriffen" a good story buried in pastiche. Reading it again today, I feel the same response.

I also have to wonder how many people stared at the first line, winced, and then tossed the book aside:

My first impression of Fengriffen House was skeletal.

Not content to give such a skeletal impression of his writing skill, David Case goes on to mangle another modifier:

I saw it from the carriage, rising against a stormy sundown like the blackened bones of some monstrous beast....

A first paragraph is the gateway into reading; this one is rusted and barely squeaks open, but after a few more the writing improves:

I looked at the moors and I smoked. When my pipe burned out I filled a second, lighted it, tamped it down carefully, and fired it again until it was burning evenly and the smoke was cool. Tobacco is an ally of contentment, and I told myself I must be content with the cheerful blaze still in the grate and the wind howling ineffectively outside, shaking the trees in a fury but unable to get to me -- indeed, defeating its purpose as in rage it sucked the draught up the chimney and caused my fire to burn more freely. I was able to judge the force of that wind by regarding the shadows beneath the trees. The filigreed moonlight shifted and blurred, laying silver tapestries beneath the limbs. It was hypnotic. I lost awareness of time as I studied the moving shadows. My second pipe went out. I pulled thoughtlessly at the mouthpiece. My eyes grew heavy. Then, gradually, I found myself looking at a different shadow. I must have observed it for some time before I realized it was more than the wind snatching the trees. For this shape had advanced beyond the trees, bringing a shadow of its own; it moved near to the house and then paused. I snapped to alertness. I stared at this dark form and had the grotesque impression that, whatever it was, it was staring back at me. A finger of ice tapped up the articulation of my backbone, leaving me rigid in its wake.

Too many present participles, but otherwise, not bad at all.

The story moves quickly, piles on details and complications with skill, holds the attention at all times. As a narrative, "Fengriffen" brings more than enough to make reading worthwhile, if you can accept the anonymity of pastiche. For me, it represents a dead end. I see no value in mimicking the writers of yesterday; I prefer those writers who have learned from the past, who have digested its methods to bring us ideas and obsessions of their own. The past is a guide, but should not be a limiting template.

As templated stories go, "Fengriffen" is one of the best. I can only wish that Case had used the tale to share private fears and personal images, to make the story his own.