"Bound" - critique please

So here's the story, it's pretty long, but I hope it's worth the read. <hr>Bound 
 Thunder crackled loudly outside the library, as lightning snaked across the evening sky. The archaic structure was pelted by wave after wave of torrential rain. Wind bellowed against the building, threatening to tear the entire structure down. No sane person would dare brave this weather just to read some old, musty books. But I’m here. The metal doorbell clanged as I entered the library, alerting my presence to… absolutely no one. The place was empty, just as expected. I assumed it will remain that way for the rest of my shift. I don’t even know why the administrators bothered to keep the library up and running this late into the night. The only person I ever saw this late at night was the librarian, and for this night, that librarian was me. I made my way to the main desk. The librarian’s counter was stationed at the far end of the library. Every step I took caused creaks in the hardwood floor that reverberated throughout the entire facility. Creak. Creak. Creak. Creeaaaaaak. I stopped in my tracks, and the noise continued echoing along in the cavernous library. It was strange, but the sound was not in tune with my steps. I checked the aisles and the reading areas, wary of the steps I took, but no one was there. Not a single soul reading books or otherwise lurking about. I guess it was just the wood flexing in the cold of the rain. That would be the only logical explanation. I couldn’t help but laugh at my bewilderment. The short walk served to confirm my isolation in the library though. Even Alex wasn’t here. I guess he left his shift early. I couldn’t really blame him. Between the deteriorating wood, the dim lighting and the emptiness, the library was the perfect mix of haunted mansion and decrepit house. Coupled with the storm, there was absolutely no good reason to stay and supervise this empty library. But I couldn’t let a little spooky ambiance scare me from a paycheck; that’s just irrational. The desk was a mess. I knew Alex was a lazy slob, but I figured he would make an attempt to do his job properly, at least before leaving early. Books were scattered all over the desk and counter. Some were even on the floor, facedown, spines wrinkled and pages folded. A few minutes later, the books were all stacked on the table, ready to be put back in their respective aisles. I took a moment to marvel at my work. Creak. Creak. Creak. I guess I was wrong. Someone was in the library, each step confirming the fact. Perhaps I didn’t check hard enough. Anyway, that was signal enough to continue working or at least, look like I was. I gathered up the books and placed them on the cart, beginning the tedious job of returning all of them. As I placed book after book in the shelves, I couldn’t help but wrinkle my nose. It was slight, but I knew my imagination couldn’t have been so powerful to just conjure it up. It was the smell of fish, fish that has been rotting in stagnant water for days. I wondered if the other guy could smell it too and felt embarrassed if he did. Still, I was a librarian, not a janitor. My job was done, and I figured I could relax a bit at my desk. I booted up the old computer and as the familiar Windows start-up tune played, I noticed the book. It lay in the corner of my desk, propped up to guarantee I would see it. Strange, I swore I didn’t leave any books behind. Stranger still, it was a stripped book; it had no cover. Technically, it was illegal to own one, as books are usually stripped to be pulped and recycled. Perhaps the guy who entered thought he could leave this here as a donation? I could hear creaking in the distance. He must still be here. If I run into him, I’ll be sure to ask. I grabbed the book. The pages were clearly of age, crisp and yellowed. There was no indication whatsoever of what the book was or who wrote it. With nothing better to do, I began reading it. “This book is all that remains of H.C., What a coincidence. My name is Harvey Cooper. I laughed. who was flayed alive on the Seventieth Day of September. I don’t know what compelled me, but I double checked the date on my computer. My smile died. He is this book in its entirety. May you be connected with him through its touch.” A chill ran down my spine, but I still couldn’t suppress a chuckle. It was just a book after all, whatever was written here is probably just sheer coincidence. I just hoped the coincidences ended there. I had to read more. Each turn of the page dissipated whatever hope I had bit by bit. Each chapter read sunk my gut a little bit deeper. The hairs on the back of my neck threatened to rip away from my skin. This was all too chilling, too coincidental. Every paragraph detailed a portion of my life, down to the smallest detail. Things about me that I have never told anyone else about were here, from my unexpressed rage at my parents to the time that I cheated on my girlfriend. I don’t know what was worse, the fact that my entire life has been written here or the fact that this was all written in a third person perspective, that of an observer who seemed to revel in watching me from the shadows. The writing grew cryptic as the chapters progressed, details irrelevant to my life being interspersed between every paragraph. Thunder continued booming in the distance, uncaring of my predicament. The lights started flickering ever so slightly, making it even harder to read this chicken scratch handwriting. What scared me most though is that this book was not more than a hundred pages. Considering the pages I've read and how much of my life has been already detailed… I fumbled through the pages, desperately seeking how this the last chapter will play out. I scanned through paragraphs that detail everything up until this day. The following pages were empty. I flipped through them, making sure I didn’t miss anything out. Nothing, not a single word beyond me picking this book up. I felt my heart pump in my chest and sweat bead down my temple. This must be all a cruel joke. That’s the only thing it could be… right? I could still hear the stranger’s footsteps creaking in the distance, the echoes now taking a more ominous tone. The stench of rotting meat wafted in the air, churning my already weak stomach. Ring. It was the doorbell. I don’t think anyone else would enter the library this late at night, so it could only mean one thing. The stranger was leaving. He is the only one who could explain this book. He is the one responsible for this. I ran towards the entrance. My boots pounded down on the hardwood, sound echoing throughout the empty library. As I ran, the creaking in the library only got louder and more frequent; the sound overwhelming even the rain and thunder outside. The doorbell continued ringing; the clanging of the bell producing a chaotic melody to the chorus of creaks. It all grew to an overwhelming roar. Enough so that I didn’t hear the thumping steps behind me and the heavy blow that took my consciousness. --- My head throbbed, waves of pain shooting throughout my whole body. The all too familiar stench of death wafted throughout the area, exacerbating my pain. Blurry eyes distorted my vision. I tried rubbing them, but my arms were paralyzed, immobile. Thick leather belts held them in place. To my horror, my legs were similarly restrained. I struggled vainly against the restraints, until I realized I wasn’t alone in the room. He was seated in the corner, writing under the luminescence of a dying light bulb. His hands were a flurry of disgusting movement. They were like gnarled branches, knotted at the joints with the rigidity of branches. The cracks and groans of abused ligaments and joints were audible through the furious scratching of pen on paper. It was like the buzzing of hornets, an aggressive and foreboding white noise, made even worse knowing that he was writing on my book. I didn’t need to make sure, but I knew. The coverless pages lay flat and wrinkled on the table, squished under his forceful writing. I tried to call out to him. Pleaded, begged for my life. I would’ve gone on my knees if I could. I told him I won’t tell anyone. I wouldn’t rat him out, as long as he would let me out. Let me free. Let me live. I’ll give him all the money he wants. Everything. But he didn’t respond. There was only the persistent sound of words being written on paper. It was no use. He has the pen, and I am his story. As he continued, his terrible visage casting shadows upon me, one thought lingered: How does he want my story to end? -- Harvey screamed. He cried. He begged. He pleaded. It did me no little pleasure to hear his voice torn raw by his anguish. He used words to try and delay his inevitable demise, but alas, words are what condemn him to his fate, words that I write ever so endlessly. Blinded by fear, he failed to see. He failed to see the array of knives arranged neatly on my table. He failed to see the rows of leather bound books lining the shelves that surrounded this room. He failed to see the book I just finished. He failed to see that even without me, he would not be alone in this room. His friend Alex stared blankly into the ceiling, mouth agape, eyes frozen in an expression of fear. He was crumpled awkwardly atop a rack, his skin, laid out, taut, ready to be processed. His face was a hollow mockery of who he once was, flat and deflated, a macabre impression of his last moments forever on his face. Perhaps it was for the best since unfortunately, the same must be done for dear Harvey. It began with a cut, a long vertical cut from his throat to his genitals. The first plunge of the dagger is always the finest. Harvey was still lucid then. His eyes stared at me in shock, his sniveling pleas cut short by 3 inches of steel in his neck. From there, it was short work; Harvey had ceased resisting. Liver, heart, intestines, all thrown out. Flesh and vile human fat rendered from his skin. Face, carefully peeled off, preserving his horrified expression. Skull smashed in. Brain mashed, spread on his skin. Leather made. Book bound. ---- So a few of my concerns: I'm not particularly satisfied with how I ended it. It seems almost too dragged out for me, enough so that the creepiness and scariness dissipates. I feel that the pasta would do better with a more abrupt twist, but I couldn't really find out a way to end it quickly and succintly while still retaining my core scare/idea (which is anthropodermic bibliopegy; practice of binding books in human flesh/leather). Another of my concerns is that in the end, I may have given the monster/antagonist too much of a voice. It's like I'm spoon feeding readers too much, again reducing the scare. I also thought of perhaps making it that the monster has to do this to continue living, as he "lives within other people' stories", but I think that will make readers too sympathetic to it. Any comments, suggestions, and help will be much appreciated. :)