“Pshhp. *Crrkk*.” Charlie mimics the sound of bone cracking under his butcher knife.

“Shhpp.” A woman’s neck severs in one foul hack, the head rolling to his knees. He grabs it by the hair, lifting it to his face as warm, sticky blood pitter-patters onto his lap, the metallic scent filling his nostrils.

“I did it a-*fucking*-gain.” Charlie shakes the head, eyes wild with a mixture of panic and rage. “You’re not one of them, are you?” His knuckles whiten around the ginger locks, his grip so tight his fist trembles. “Stupid cunt. Walking around cult territory in dress code—hair all braided and holy-looking.”

Charlie drops the knife and tugs at the bloodied tag inside the woman’s dress. 70% COTTON, 25% LINEN, 5% SPANDEX. The forbidden synthetic material mocks him. “You had it coming.”

Holiness Be is a thriving megachurch in the deep south of Texas. On the surface, it unites Christians of many denominations, a respected and popular institution. But behind the facade lies a cult of more than 2,000 members. Their worship centers on God himself and Pastor Welsh, aided by Gracelyn Hughes—Charlie’s own mother.

The cult preached of a coming “new beginning,” luring followers to secluded rituals. Charlie, the only son among Gracelyn’s seven children, was expected to father a child by sixteen. By twenty-five, he still hadn’t—and rumors spread of his secret relationship with another male member.

Spared physical punishment thanks to his mother’s status, Charlie and his partner endured relentless psychological torment until they finally fled. Now unhinged, Charlie stalks the cult, consumed by a hunger to kill its supporters.

That’s why Charlie knew the woman he’d just murdered wasn’t part of it. The tag listed three mixed fabrics. Cult members were forbidden to wear anything but pure cotton or linen, as preached in the Old Testament.

“Eugh!” Charlie flings the head into a corner of the basement, the skull cracking against the edge of a workbench with a sickening thud. A sob echoes through the cement room as his hands clutch the irreligious fabric and he weeps into it. “You’re the *sixth!* Sixth dumbass who has nothing to do with Holiness Be that I’ve killed!” He shakes the limp body, fumbling for his butcher’s knife.

“Should I put up signs??” He hacks blindly, voice breaking as the sound of tearing flesh fills the room. He’s so blinded by rage he doesn’t realize he’s screaming. “Should I *ask you kindly* what your shirt’s made of??” He rips the blade from the woman’s stomach and plunges it back in, warm blood splattering across his face. “Or should you just *know* not to dress like it’s *fucking* Halloween!”

The wooden steps creak behind him. It's his husband. But Charlie’s ears ring with the pounding of his own heartbeat; he’s too lost in his rage, still shouting obscenities at the butchered body as he continues his brutal assault.