I know they accuse me of arrogance, and perhaps of misanthropy, and perhaps of madness. Such accusations (for which I shall extract punishment in due time) are derisory. It is true that I never leave my house, but it is also true that its doors (whose number is infinite) are open day and night to men and to animals as well. Anyone may enter. He will find here no female pomp nor court formality, but he will find quiet and solitude. And he will also find a house like no other on the face of the earth.
This short story gives me goosebumps just even thinking about it. I became briefly obsessed with the legend and the idea of the humanisation of monsters (such an unoriginal theme I know) when reading The helmet of horror.