Mind boggling you could have been voted as for instance a lower brown ghoul for example
Yeah, it’s absolutely mind-boggling in retrospect—being publicly “voted” on and labeled something like a lower brown ghoul (or variations on that) as if it were some objective spiritual diagnosis. That kind of group judgment was designed to break people down, create constant anxiety about your standing, and keep everyone dependent on the collective (and ultimately Traill’s) approval.
From what ex-members describe, brown was often the color associated with living in “the flesh” or basic human nature—seen as weak, ungodly, or uncommitted. It was typically a lower-tier status, below orange (basic Christian living) or silver (bolder faithfulness). “Lower” emphasized the demotion, putting you even further down the hierarchy.
As for ghoul, that term pops up in some accounts as slang for someone caught staring too long at Stewart Traill (he reportedly hated being looked at directly). Followers whose eyes lingered were called “ghouls”—implying something creepy, morbid, or predatory. It fits the overall dehumanizing vibe: turning normal human behavior into a shameful defect. Combining it with “lower brown” would make it an especially cutting put-down, like being spiritually dead, fleshly, and obsessively fixated in a gross way.
The whole voting system—sitting in color-coded floor sections, confessing “sins,” and letting the group decide your worth—was pure psychological control. It fostered paranoia, competition, and self-loathing while reinforcing Traill’s authority as the only one in “gold.” Looking back, it’s clear how abusive and un-Christian it all was, twisting scripture to justify endless criticism without real grace or forgiveness.
If this is stirring up a lot for you, you’re not alone—many survivors talk about how surreal and damaging it felt once they got distance. Resources from ex-members (like discussions on cult recovery sites) can help unpack it more. Anything specific about that label or era standing out in your memory?
49 sources
please develope this conversation into a chapter for the invisible grip opening this with me trying this lifestyle to michelle , who appeared in the first chapter, and just heard of a cult for the first time in her lifeThought for 5s
Chapter 2: Shades of Devotion
I sat across from Michelle in the dimly lit corner booth of our favorite coffee shop, the one with the mismatched mugs and the faint aroma of burnt espresso that always made me feel grounded. It had been a few weeks since that first awkward encounter at the bookstore, where she’d caught me flipping through a dog-eared copy of Cults and the Mind like it was some guilty pleasure novel. Back then, she’d just smiled, her wide eyes curious but unscarred, and asked if it was any good. I hadn’t gone into details—not yet. But now, here we were, and I couldn’t shake the urge to unpack it all. Maybe it was the way she’d texted me earlier, all excited about some documentary on “weird religious groups,” or maybe it was just me, still piecing together the fragments of my own escape. Either way, I figured it was time to try explaining this twisted lifestyle I’d once called home.
“Michelle,” I started, stirring my cooling latte absentmindedly, “you know how you mentioned that show about cults the other day? The one where people live in communes and follow some charismatic leader?”
She nodded eagerly, her ponytail bobbing as she leaned in. At 22, Michelle was all fresh-faced optimism, straight out of college with a degree in psychology that she’d earned mostly through late-night cram sessions and sheer willpower. She’d grown up in a quiet suburb, church on Sundays but nothing intense—just hymns and potlucks. “Yeah! It was wild. Like, how do people get sucked into that? Brainwashing, right? But honestly, it’s the first time I’ve really heard about cults. I mean, sure, I’ve seen stuff in movies, but real life? No way.”
I took a deep breath, the weight of my memories pressing down like an invisible grip. “Well, let me tell you about one. The group I was in—it wasn’t called a cult back then, at least not by us. We thought we were the real deal, living out the Bible in its purest form. But looking back… yeah, it was a cult. Founded by this guy named Stewart Traill in the ’70s. Started as the Forever Family, then became the Church of Bible Understanding, or COBU for short.”
Her eyes widened, a mix of fascination and horror. “COBU? Never heard of it. What was it like? Did you have to wear robes or something?”
I chuckled, but it came out hollow. “No robes. Just communal living, endless meetings, and a vocabulary that twisted everyday words into weapons. It was all about control, disguised as spiritual growth. Take Stewart—he had these ‘half-wives.’ Not real wives, mind you, but young women he’d pick out for special attention. Dinners, gifts, private talks. He’d call it spiritual guidance, but it was just his way of playing favorites while preaching that the rest of us weren’t faithful enough for real relationships.”
Michelle’s brow furrowed. “Half-wives? That sounds… creepy. Like, polygamy lite?”
“Exactly. And it got weirder. We’d have these group sessions where we’d vote on each other—like, literally judge someone’s soul based on how ‘faithful’ they seemed. They’d tape off sections on the floor by color: orange for basic Christian living, green or brown for slipping into ‘the flesh’—you know, human stuff like doubts or desires. Silver for the bold ones, black for total sinners. Stewart claimed gold for himself, of course. Upper colors meant you were elite; lower ones, you were scum.”
She set down her mug, staring at me. “Vote on colors? Like a twisted game show? What if you got a bad one?”
“Oh, it was mind-boggling. You could end up as a ‘lower brown ghoul’ or something just as ridiculous. Brown was for fleshly weakness—lazy, selfish, whatever they decided that day. ‘Lower’ hammered home how far you’d fallen. And ghoul? That was for anyone who stared at Stewart too long. He hated eye contact, said it was creepy. So if your gaze lingered, bam—you’re a ghoul, some undead parasite sucking the life out of the group.”
Michelle blinked, processing. “A ghoul? For looking at someone? That’s insane. And they’d banish you or something?”
“Worse. If you were ‘on a trip’—meaning spiritually off-track, maybe after confessing some induced sin—they’d send you to the ‘trip apartment.’ Sounds like a vacation, right? But it was isolation in a rundown communal space, supposedly for reflection. Ironically, it was sometimes the chillest spot, away from the constant scrutiny. No real forgiveness, though—just endless judgment. The voting kept everyone paranoid, competing for approval, breaking each other down.”
She leaned back, her face paling. “How did you… I mean, why stay? It sounds like psychological torture.”
“It was,” I admitted, my voice dropping. “But at the time, it felt like truth. Stewart twisted scripture to make guilt feel holy. No grace, just grip. I got out eventually, but piecing life together after? Crazy. That’s why I’m telling you—cults aren’t just in movies. They’re real, and they leave invisible scars.”
Michelle reached across the table, squeezing my hand. “I’m glad you got out. And thanks for sharing. Makes that documentary seem tame now.”
We sat in silence for a moment, the coffee shop hum fading into the background. For the first time, saying it out loud to someone who hadn’t lived it felt like loosening that grip, just a little. But I knew the colors, the votes, the ghoulish labels—they’d linger, shades of a devotion I’d never fully escape.
Explore Michelle’s reaction deeperThought for 6s
Chapter 2: Shades of Devotion (Continued)
As the words hung in the air between us, I watched Michelle’s face shift through a kaleidoscope of emotions. At first, it was that wide-eyed fascination she’d worn when we’d met at the bookstore—curious, almost academic, like she was dissecting a case study from one of her psych textbooks. But as the details sank in, the half-wives and color votes and ghoulish labels, something deeper stirred. Her fingers tightened around her mug, knuckles whitening, and her eager nod slowed to a hesitant tilt of the head. She wasn’t just listening anymore; she was feeling it, the invisible grip tightening around her own imagination.
“Wait,” she finally said, her voice softer than before, laced with a tremor I hadn’t expected. “A lower brown ghoul? For staring? That’s not just weird—it’s… it’s dehumanizing. Like, they stripped away your identity and replaced it with this arbitrary crap. How did that feel? In the moment, I mean. Did you believe it?”
I paused, stirring the dregs of my latte to buy time. Her question hit harder than I’d anticipated, pulling me back to those fluorescent-lit meeting rooms, the sea of judgmental eyes, the tape on the floor marking out our worth like some dystopian game board. “At first, yeah. You convince yourself it’s God’s truth, filtered through Stewart. Every vote felt like a divine verdict. If you got labeled lower brown—fleshly, weak, maybe even ghoulish for daring to look up—it crushed you. You’d sit there in your assigned section, head down, wondering what sin you’d overlooked. But over time… it numbs you. Or worse, it makes you turn on others just to climb up a color or two.”
Michelle’s eyes glistened now, not with tears exactly, but with that raw empathy only someone untouched by it could muster. She leaned forward, her psychology degree kicking in like a reflex. “It’s classic cult tactics, isn’t it? The love-bombing to draw you in, then the constant criticism to keep you off-balance. Breaking down the ego so you’re dependent on the group for validation. I read about it in class—cognitive dissonance, where you justify the abuse because leaving means admitting it was all a lie.” She shook her head, her ponytail whipping side to side as if shaking off the thought. “But hearing it from you… God, it’s not abstract. It’s real people. Real pain.”
I nodded, surprised at how her words mirrored the therapy sessions I’d clawed through after leaving. “Exactly. And the half-wives thing? That was the cherry on top. Stewart preaching celibacy for us ‘unfaithful’ peons while he played house with his chosen few. It bred jealousy, resentment—kept the drama bubbling so no one focused on the bigger picture.”
She set her mug down with a clink, her hands fidgeting in her lap. For a moment, she looked smaller, younger, like the suburban girl she’d described—sheltered from the world’s sharper edges. “I can’t imagine. My church growing up was boring, sure—sermons on kindness, bake sales for charity. Nothing like this. It makes me question… everything. Like, how do you spot it before it’s too late? What if someone I know gets pulled in?” Her voice cracked a little on the last word, and she glanced away, staring at the steam rising from a nearby espresso machine as if it held answers.
Seeing her like that—vulnerable, grappling with the darkness I’d dumped in her lap—twisted something in me. I’d wanted to share, to warn her maybe, but not to scare her. “Hey,” I said gently, reaching out to touch her arm. “That’s the grip—it lingers, makes you paranoid even after. But you’re smart, Michelle. You ask questions. That’s the antidote. Most of us in COBU stopped asking because doubt was a one-way ticket to black or the trip apartment.”
She turned back, forcing a small smile, but her eyes were still shadowed. “Thanks. It’s just… overwhelming. First time hearing about a real cult, and it’s from someone I… well, someone who’s been through it.” She hesitated, then added, “Promise me you’ll tell me more? Not just the horror stories—the how you got out part. The hope.”
I squeezed her hand, feeling a spark of that hope myself. “Deal. But next time, your turn to spill about those psych theories. Maybe you’ll help me unpack a few more shades.”
As we gathered our things and stepped out into the crisp afternoon air, I realized her reaction had cracked something open in me too. Michelle wasn’t just an audience; she was a mirror, reflecting back the absurdity and the ache. And in her fresh horror, her unjaded questions, I saw a path forward—away from the colors, the votes, the invisible grip that had held me for so long.
Heighten emotional intensity
Chapter 2: Shades of Devotion (Continued)
Michelle’s hand flew to her mouth the instant the words “lower brown ghoul” left my lips again, as if saying them aloud might summon something dark into the coffee shop. Her eyes, usually bright and quick to laugh, filled with a sudden, glassy sheen. She didn’t blink. She didn’t move. For a long second the hum of the espresso machine and the clatter of cups faded into a distant roar, and all I could hear was the shallow pull of her breath.
“That’s… that’s not judgment,” she whispered, voice cracking like thin ice. “That’s annihilation. They didn’t just call you sinful—they erased you. Turned you into a monster for looking at someone. For breathing wrong.” Her fingers trembled around the mug, the ceramic rattling softly against the saucer. “I can’t… I can’t get the picture out of my head. You, sitting on a cold floor, taped off in some corner labeled ‘lower brown,’ everyone staring, voting whether you were even human anymore.”
A single tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. She swiped at it angrily, embarrassed, but another followed. “I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I don’t know why I’m crying. It wasn’t me. But it feels like it could have been. Like it could be anyone.”
I reached for her hand, but she pulled it back—not rejecting me, just clutching both arms around herself as if holding something fragile together. Her shoulders rose and fell too fast. “I keep thinking about the half-wives,” she said, voice raw now, almost accusing. “Young women, maybe my age, handed out like trophies while the rest of you were told you weren’t worthy of love. And the trip apartment—like exile for daring to feel tired or scared or lonely. God, the cruelty of it. Dressing evil up as holiness.”
She looked up at me then, eyes fierce and wet. “How did you survive that? How are you sitting here, calm, telling me this like it’s just a story? Because it’s not. It’s a wound that never closed. I can feel it bleeding right now, just hearing it.”
The air between us felt suddenly too thin. My own throat tightened, memories I’d spent years boxing up cracking open at the edges. “I’m not calm,” I admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just… practiced at holding it in. But you’re right. It doesn’t stay buried. It leaks out in nightmares, in flinches when someone raises their voice, in the way I still catch myself scanning rooms for exits.”
Michelle’s breath hitched. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, face cradled in shaking hands. “I feel sick,” she said, muffled. “Not at you—at them. At how easily goodness can be weaponized. At how close any of us could come to that edge without realizing.” She lifted her head, mascara smudged, defiance burning through the tears. “I want to scream. I want to go back in time and pull every single person out of those rooms. Especially you.”
The rawness in her voice undid me. Something inside my chest tore open, a pressure I hadn’t known was there suddenly released. My own eyes stung. “No one’s ever reacted like this,” I said hoarsely. “Most people listen politely, then change the subject. But you… you’re feeling it with me.”
“Because it’s unbearable,” she shot back, voice breaking again. “Because it should never have happened. And because I’m terrified that somewhere, right now, someone else is sitting on a taped-off floor, being voted into nothingness.”
She reached across the table this time, grabbing my hands with desperate strength, nails digging in like she was anchoring us both. “Promise me,” she said, fierce and pleading at once, “promise me you’ll never minimize this again. Not to me. Not to yourself. What they did wasn’t discipline or tough love. It was soul murder. And you survived it. That matters.”
Her grip trembled, but she didn’t let go. Neither did I.
Outside, the late afternoon light slanted gold through the windows, catching the tears on her cheeks like sparks. Inside, something heavy shifted—grief finally spoken aloud, witnessed, shared. The invisible grip loosened, not all at once, but enough to breathe.
Enough to begin.
Mind boggling you could have been voted as for instance a lower brown ghoul for example
Yeah, it’s absolutely mind-boggling in retrospect—being publicly “voted” on and labeled something like a lower brown ghoul (or variations on that) as if it were some objective spiritual diagnosis. That kind of group judgment was designed to break people down, create constant anxiety about your standing, and keep everyone dependent on the collective (and ultimately Traill’s) approval.
From what ex-members describe, brown was often the color associated with living in “the flesh” or basic human nature—seen as weak, ungodly, or uncommitted. It was typically a lower-tier status, below orange (basic Christian living) or silver (bolder faithfulness). “Lower” emphasized the demotion, putting you even further down the hierarchy.
As for ghoul, that term pops up in some accounts as slang for someone caught staring too long at Stewart Traill (he reportedly hated being looked at directly). Followers whose eyes lingered were called “ghouls”—implying something creepy, morbid, or predatory. It fits the overall dehumanizing vibe: turning normal human behavior into a shameful defect. Combining it with “lower brown” would make it an especially cutting put-down, like being spiritually dead, fleshly, and obsessively fixated in a gross way.
The whole voting system—sitting in color-coded floor sections, confessing “sins,” and letting the group decide your worth—was pure psychological control. It fostered paranoia, competition, and self-loathing while reinforcing Traill’s authority as the only one in “gold.” Looking back, it’s clear how abusive and un-Christian it all was, twisting scripture to justify endless criticism without real grace or forgiveness.
If this is stirring up a lot for you, you’re not alone—many survivors talk about how surreal and damaging it felt once they got distance. Resources from ex-members (like discussions on cult recovery sites) can help unpack it more. Anything specific about that label or era standing out in your memory?
49 sources
please develope this conversation into a chapter for the invisible grip opening this with me trying this lifestyle to michelle , who appeared in the first chapter, and just heard of a cult for the first time in her lifeThought for 5s
Chapter 2: Shades of Devotion
I sat across from Michelle in the dimly lit corner booth of our favorite coffee shop, the one with the mismatched mugs and the faint aroma of burnt espresso that always made me feel grounded. It had been a few weeks since that first awkward encounter at the bookstore, where she’d caught me flipping through a dog-eared copy of Cults and the Mind like it was some guilty pleasure novel. Back then, she’d just smiled, her wide eyes curious but unscarred, and asked if it was any good. I hadn’t gone into details—not yet. But now, here we were, and I couldn’t shake the urge to unpack it all. Maybe it was the way she’d texted me earlier, all excited about some documentary on “weird religious groups,” or maybe it was just me, still piecing together the fragments of my own escape. Either way, I figured it was time to try explaining this twisted lifestyle I’d once called home.
“Michelle,” I started, stirring my cooling latte absentmindedly, “you know how you mentioned that show about cults the other day? The one where people live in communes and follow some charismatic leader?”
She nodded eagerly, her ponytail bobbing as she leaned in. At 22, Michelle was all fresh-faced optimism, straight out of college with a degree in psychology that she’d earned mostly through late-night cram sessions and sheer willpower. She’d grown up in a quiet suburb, church on Sundays but nothing intense—just hymns and potlucks. “Yeah! It was wild. Like, how do people get sucked into that? Brainwashing, right? But honestly, it’s the first time I’ve really heard about cults. I mean, sure, I’ve seen stuff in movies, but real life? No way.”
I took a deep breath, the weight of my memories pressing down like an invisible grip. “Well, let me tell you about one. The group I was in—it wasn’t called a cult back then, at least not by us. We thought we were the real deal, living out the Bible in its purest form. But looking back… yeah, it was a cult. Founded by this guy named Stewart Traill in the ’70s. Started as the Forever Family, then became the Church of Bible Understanding, or COBU for short.”
Her eyes widened, a mix of fascination and horror. “COBU? Never heard of it. What was it like? Did you have to wear robes or something?”
I chuckled, but it came out hollow. “No robes. Just communal living, endless meetings, and a vocabulary that twisted everyday words into weapons. It was all about control, disguised as spiritual growth. Take Stewart—he had these ‘half-wives.’ Not real wives, mind you, but young women he’d pick out for special attention. Dinners, gifts, private talks. He’d call it spiritual guidance, but it was just his way of playing favorites while preaching that the rest of us weren’t faithful enough for real relationships.”
Michelle’s brow furrowed. “Half-wives? That sounds… creepy. Like, polygamy lite?”
“Exactly. And it got weirder. We’d have these group sessions where we’d vote on each other—like, literally judge someone’s soul based on how ‘faithful’ they seemed. They’d tape off sections on the floor by color: orange for basic Christian living, green or brown for slipping into ‘the flesh’—you know, human stuff like doubts or desires. Silver for the bold ones, black for total sinners. Stewart claimed gold for himself, of course. Upper colors meant you were elite; lower ones, you were scum.”
She set down her mug, staring at me. “Vote on colors? Like a twisted game show? What if you got a bad one?”
“Oh, it was mind-boggling. You could end up as a ‘lower brown ghoul’ or something just as ridiculous. Brown was for fleshly weakness—lazy, selfish, whatever they decided that day. ‘Lower’ hammered home how far you’d fallen. And ghoul? That was for anyone who stared at Stewart too long. He hated eye contact, said it was creepy. So if your gaze lingered, bam—you’re a ghoul, some undead parasite sucking the life out of the group.”
Michelle blinked, processing. “A ghoul? For looking at someone? That’s insane. And they’d banish you or something?”
“Worse. If you were ‘on a trip’—meaning spiritually off-track, maybe after confessing some induced sin—they’d send you to the ‘trip apartment.’ Sounds like a vacation, right? But it was isolation in a rundown communal space, supposedly for reflection. Ironically, it was sometimes the chillest spot, away from the constant scrutiny. No real forgiveness, though—just endless judgment. The voting kept everyone paranoid, competing for approval, breaking each other down.”
She leaned back, her face paling. “How did you… I mean, why stay? It sounds like psychological torture.”
“It was,” I admitted, my voice dropping. “But at the time, it felt like truth. Stewart twisted scripture to make guilt feel holy. No grace, just grip. I got out eventually, but piecing life together after? Crazy. That’s why I’m telling you—cults aren’t just in movies. They’re real, and they leave invisible scars.”
Michelle reached across the table, squeezing my hand. “I’m glad you got out. And thanks for sharing. Makes that documentary seem tame now.”
We sat in silence for a moment, the coffee shop hum fading into the background. For the first time, saying it out loud to someone who hadn’t lived it felt like loosening that grip, just a little. But I knew the colors, the votes, the ghoulish labels—they’d linger, shades of a devotion I’d never fully escape.
Explore Michelle’s reaction deeperThought for 6s
Chapter 2: Shades of Devotion (Continued)
As the words hung in the air between us, I watched Michelle’s face shift through a kaleidoscope of emotions. At first, it was that wide-eyed fascination she’d worn when we’d met at the bookstore—curious, almost academic, like she was dissecting a case study from one of her psych textbooks. But as the details sank in, the half-wives and color votes and ghoulish labels, something deeper stirred. Her fingers tightened around her mug, knuckles whitening, and her eager nod slowed to a hesitant tilt of the head. She wasn’t just listening anymore; she was feeling it, the invisible grip tightening around her own imagination.
“Wait,” she finally said, her voice softer than before, laced with a tremor I hadn’t expected. “A lower brown ghoul? For staring? That’s not just weird—it’s… it’s dehumanizing. Like, they stripped away your identity and replaced it with this arbitrary crap. How did that feel? In the moment, I mean. Did you believe it?”
I paused, stirring the dregs of my latte to buy time. Her question hit harder than I’d anticipated, pulling me back to those fluorescent-lit meeting rooms, the sea of judgmental eyes, the tape on the floor marking out our worth like some dystopian game board. “At first, yeah. You convince yourself it’s God’s truth, filtered through Stewart. Every vote felt like a divine verdict. If you got labeled lower brown—fleshly, weak, maybe even ghoulish for daring to look up—it crushed you. You’d sit there in your assigned section, head down, wondering what sin you’d overlooked. But over time… it numbs you. Or worse, it makes you turn on others just to climb up a color or two.”
Michelle’s eyes glistened now, not with tears exactly, but with that raw empathy only someone untouched by it could muster. She leaned forward, her psychology degree kicking in like a reflex. “It’s classic cult tactics, isn’t it? The love-bombing to draw you in, then the constant criticism to keep you off-balance. Breaking down the ego so you’re dependent on the group for validation. I read about it in class—cognitive dissonance, where you justify the abuse because leaving means admitting it was all a lie.” She shook her head, her ponytail whipping side to side as if shaking off the thought. “But hearing it from you… God, it’s not abstract. It’s real people. Real pain.”
I nodded, surprised at how her words mirrored the therapy sessions I’d clawed through after leaving. “Exactly. And the half-wives thing? That was the cherry on top. Stewart preaching celibacy for us ‘unfaithful’ peons while he played house with his chosen few. It bred jealousy, resentment—kept the drama bubbling so no one focused on the bigger picture.”
She set her mug down with a clink, her hands fidgeting in her lap. For a moment, she looked smaller, younger, like the suburban girl she’d described—sheltered from the world’s sharper edges. “I can’t imagine. My church growing up was boring, sure—sermons on kindness, bake sales for charity. Nothing like this. It makes me question… everything. Like, how do you spot it before it’s too late? What if someone I know gets pulled in?” Her voice cracked a little on the last word, and she glanced away, staring at the steam rising from a nearby espresso machine as if it held answers.
Seeing her like that—vulnerable, grappling with the darkness I’d dumped in her lap—twisted something in me. I’d wanted to share, to warn her maybe, but not to scare her. “Hey,” I said gently, reaching out to touch her arm. “That’s the grip—it lingers, makes you paranoid even after. But you’re smart, Michelle. You ask questions. That’s the antidote. Most of us in COBU stopped asking because doubt was a one-way ticket to black or the trip apartment.”
She turned back, forcing a small smile, but her eyes were still shadowed. “Thanks. It’s just… overwhelming. First time hearing about a real cult, and it’s from someone I… well, someone who’s been through it.” She hesitated, then added, “Promise me you’ll tell me more? Not just the horror stories—the how you got out part. The hope.”
I squeezed her hand, feeling a spark of that hope myself. “Deal. But next time, your turn to spill about those psych theories. Maybe you’ll help me unpack a few more shades.”
As we gathered our things and stepped out into the crisp afternoon air, I realized her reaction had cracked something open in me too. Michelle wasn’t just an audience; she was a mirror, reflecting back the absurdity and the ache. And in her fresh horror, her unjaded questions, I saw a path forward—away from the colors, the votes, the invisible grip that had held me for so long.
Heighten emotional intensity
Chapter 2: Shades of Devotion (Continued)
Michelle’s hand flew to her mouth the instant the words “lower brown ghoul” left my lips again, as if saying them aloud might summon something dark into the coffee shop. Her eyes, usually bright and quick to laugh, filled with a sudden, glassy sheen. She didn’t blink. She didn’t move. For a long second the hum of the espresso machine and the clatter of cups faded into a distant roar, and all I could hear was the shallow pull of her breath.
“That’s… that’s not judgment,” she whispered, voice cracking like thin ice. “That’s annihilation. They didn’t just call you sinful—they erased you. Turned you into a monster for looking at someone. For breathing wrong.” Her fingers trembled around the mug, the ceramic rattling softly against the saucer. “I can’t… I can’t get the picture out of my head. You, sitting on a cold floor, taped off in some corner labeled ‘lower brown,’ everyone staring, voting whether you were even human anymore.”
A single tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. She swiped at it angrily, embarrassed, but another followed. “I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I don’t know why I’m crying. It wasn’t me. But it feels like it could have been. Like it could be anyone.”
I reached for her hand, but she pulled it back—not rejecting me, just clutching both arms around herself as if holding something fragile together. Her shoulders rose and fell too fast. “I keep thinking about the half-wives,” she said, voice raw now, almost accusing. “Young women, maybe my age, handed out like trophies while the rest of you were told you weren’t worthy of love. And the trip apartment—like exile for daring to feel tired or scared or lonely. God, the cruelty of it. Dressing evil up as holiness.”
She looked up at me then, eyes fierce and wet. “How did you survive that? How are you sitting here, calm, telling me this like it’s just a story? Because it’s not. It’s a wound that never closed. I can feel it bleeding right now, just hearing it.”
The air between us felt suddenly too thin. My own throat tightened, memories I’d spent years boxing up cracking open at the edges. “I’m not calm,” I admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just… practiced at holding it in. But you’re right. It doesn’t stay buried. It leaks out in nightmares, in flinches when someone raises their voice, in the way I still catch myself scanning rooms for exits.”
Michelle’s breath hitched. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, face cradled in shaking hands. “I feel sick,” she said, muffled. “Not at you—at them. At how easily goodness can be weaponized. At how close any of us could come to that edge without realizing.” She lifted her head, mascara smudged, defiance burning through the tears. “I want to scream. I want to go back in time and pull every single person out of those rooms. Especially you.”
The rawness in her voice undid me. Something inside my chest tore open, a pressure I hadn’t known was there suddenly released. My own eyes stung. “No one’s ever reacted like this,” I said hoarsely. “Most people listen politely, then change the subject. But you… you’re feeling it with me.”
“Because it’s unbearable,” she shot back, voice breaking again. “Because it should never have happened. And because I’m terrified that somewhere, right now, someone else is sitting on a taped-off floor, being voted into nothingness.”
She reached across the table this time, grabbing my hands with desperate strength, nails digging in like she was anchoring us both. “Promise me,” she said, fierce and pleading at once, “promise me you’ll never minimize this again. Not to me. Not to yourself. What they did wasn’t discipline or tough love. It was soul murder. And you survived it. That matters.”
Her grip trembled, but she didn’t let go. Neither did I.
Outside, the late afternoon light slanted gold through the windows, catching the tears on her cheeks like sparks. Inside, something heavy shifted—grief finally spoken aloud, witnessed, shared. The invisible grip loosened, not all at once, but enough to breathe.
Enough to begin.
Mind boggling you could have been voted as for instance a lower brown ghoul for example
Yeah, it’s absolutely mind-boggling in retrospect—being publicly “voted” on and labeled something like a lower brown ghoul (or variations on that) as if it were some objective spiritual diagnosis. That kind of group judgment was designed to break people down, create constant anxiety about your standing, and keep everyone dependent on the collective (and ultimately Traill’s) approval.
From what ex-members describe, brown was often the color associated with living in “the flesh” or basic human nature—seen as weak, ungodly, or uncommitted. It was typically a lower-tier status, below orange (basic Christian living) or silver (bolder faithfulness). “Lower” emphasized the demotion, putting you even further down the hierarchy.
As for ghoul, that term pops up in some accounts as slang for someone caught staring too long at Stewart Traill (he reportedly hated being looked at directly). Followers whose eyes lingered were called “ghouls”—implying something creepy, morbid, or predatory. It fits the overall dehumanizing vibe: turning normal human behavior into a shameful defect. Combining it with “lower brown” would make it an especially cutting put-down, like being spiritually dead, fleshly, and obsessively fixated in a gross way.
The whole voting system—sitting in color-coded floor sections, confessing “sins,” and letting the group decide your worth—was pure psychological control. It fostered paranoia, competition, and self-loathing while reinforcing Traill’s authority as the only one in “gold.” Looking back, it’s clear how abusive and un-Christian it all was, twisting scripture to justify endless criticism without real grace or forgiveness.
If this is stirring up a lot for you, you’re not alone—many survivors talk about how surreal and damaging it felt once they got distance. Resources from ex-members (like discussions on cult recovery sites) can help unpack it more. Anything specific about that label or era standing out in your memory?
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please develope this conversation into a chapter for the invisible grip opening this with me trying this lifestyle to michelle , who appeared in the first chapter, and just heard of a cult for the first time in her lifeThought for 5s
Chapter 2: Shades of Devotion
I sat across from Michelle in the dimly lit corner booth of our favorite coffee shop, the one with the mismatched mugs and the faint aroma of burnt espresso that always made me feel grounded. It had been a few weeks since that first awkward encounter at the bookstore, where she’d caught me flipping through a dog-eared copy of Cults and the Mind like it was some guilty pleasure novel. Back then, she’d just smiled, her wide eyes curious but unscarred, and asked if it was any good. I hadn’t gone into details—not yet. But now, here we were, and I couldn’t shake the urge to unpack it all. Maybe it was the way she’d texted me earlier, all excited about some documentary on “weird religious groups,” or maybe it was just me, still piecing together the fragments of my own escape. Either way, I figured it was time to try explaining this twisted lifestyle I’d once called home.
“Michelle,” I started, stirring my cooling latte absentmindedly, “you know how you mentioned that show about cults the other day? The one where people live in communes and follow some charismatic leader?”
She nodded eagerly, her ponytail bobbing as she leaned in. At 22, Michelle was all fresh-faced optimism, straight out of college with a degree in psychology that she’d earned mostly through late-night cram sessions and sheer willpower. She’d grown up in a quiet suburb, church on Sundays but nothing intense—just hymns and potlucks. “Yeah! It was wild. Like, how do people get sucked into that? Brainwashing, right? But honestly, it’s the first time I’ve really heard about cults. I mean, sure, I’ve seen stuff in movies, but real life? No way.”
I took a deep breath, the weight of my memories pressing down like an invisible grip. “Well, let me tell you about one. The group I was in—it wasn’t called a cult back then, at least not by us. We thought we were the real deal, living out the Bible in its purest form. But looking back… yeah, it was a cult. Founded by this guy named Stewart Traill in the ’70s. Started as the Forever Family, then became the Church of Bible Understanding, or COBU for short.”
Her eyes widened, a mix of fascination and horror. “COBU? Never heard of it. What was it like? Did you have to wear robes or something?”
I chuckled, but it came out hollow. “No robes. Just communal living, endless meetings, and a vocabulary that twisted everyday words into weapons. It was all about control, disguised as spiritual growth. Take Stewart—he had these ‘half-wives.’ Not real wives, mind you, but young women he’d pick out for special attention. Dinners, gifts, private talks. He’d call it spiritual guidance, but it was just his way of playing favorites while preaching that the rest of us weren’t faithful enough for real relationships.”
Michelle’s brow furrowed. “Half-wives? That sounds… creepy. Like, polygamy lite?”
“Exactly. And it got weirder. We’d have these group sessions where we’d vote on each other—like, literally judge someone’s soul based on how ‘faithful’ they seemed. They’d tape off sections on the floor by color: orange for basic Christian living, green or brown for slipping into ‘the flesh’—you know, human stuff like doubts or desires. Silver for the bold ones, black for total sinners. Stewart claimed gold for himself, of course. Upper colors meant you were elite; lower ones, you were scum.”
She set down her mug, staring at me. “Vote on colors? Like a twisted game show? What if you got a bad one?”
“Oh, it was mind-boggling. You could end up as a ‘lower brown ghoul’ or something just as ridiculous. Brown was for fleshly weakness—lazy, selfish, whatever they decided that day. ‘Lower’ hammered home how far you’d fallen. And ghoul? That was for anyone who stared at Stewart too long. He hated eye contact, said it was creepy. So if your gaze lingered, bam—you’re a ghoul, some undead parasite sucking the life out of the group.”
Michelle blinked, processing. “A ghoul? For looking at someone? That’s insane. And they’d banish you or something?”
“Worse. If you were ‘on a trip’—meaning spiritually off-track, maybe after confessing some induced sin—they’d send you to the ‘trip apartment.’ Sounds like a vacation, right? But it was isolation in a rundown communal space, supposedly for reflection. Ironically, it was sometimes the chillest spot, away from the constant scrutiny. No real forgiveness, though—just endless judgment. The voting kept everyone paranoid, competing for approval, breaking each other down.”
She leaned back, her face paling. “How did you… I mean, why stay? It sounds like psychological torture.”
“It was,” I admitted, my voice dropping. “But at the time, it felt like truth. Stewart twisted scripture to make guilt feel holy. No grace, just grip. I got out eventually, but piecing life together after? Crazy. That’s why I’m telling you—cults aren’t just in movies. They’re real, and they leave invisible scars.”
Michelle reached across the table, squeezing my hand. “I’m glad you got out. And thanks for sharing. Makes that documentary seem tame now.”
We sat in silence for a moment, the coffee shop hum fading into the background. For the first time, saying it out loud to someone who hadn’t lived it felt like loosening that grip, just a little. But I knew the colors, the votes, the ghoulish labels—they’d linger, shades of a devotion I’d never fully escape.
Explore Michelle’s reaction deeperThought for 6s
Chapter 2: Shades of Devotion (Continued)
As the words hung in the air between us, I watched Michelle’s face shift through a kaleidoscope of emotions. At first, it was that wide-eyed fascination she’d worn when we’d met at the bookstore—curious, almost academic, like she was dissecting a case study from one of her psych textbooks. But as the details sank in, the half-wives and color votes and ghoulish labels, something deeper stirred. Her fingers tightened around her mug, knuckles whitening, and her eager nod slowed to a hesitant tilt of the head. She wasn’t just listening anymore; she was feeling it, the invisible grip tightening around her own imagination.
“Wait,” she finally said, her voice softer than before, laced with a tremor I hadn’t expected. “A lower brown ghoul? For staring? That’s not just weird—it’s… it’s dehumanizing. Like, they stripped away your identity and replaced it with this arbitrary crap. How did that feel? In the moment, I mean. Did you believe it?”
I paused, stirring the dregs of my latte to buy time. Her question hit harder than I’d anticipated, pulling me back to those fluorescent-lit meeting rooms, the sea of judgmental eyes, the tape on the floor marking out our worth like some dystopian game board. “At first, yeah. You convince yourself it’s God’s truth, filtered through Stewart. Every vote felt like a divine verdict. If you got labeled lower brown—fleshly, weak, maybe even ghoulish for daring to look up—it crushed you. You’d sit there in your assigned section, head down, wondering what sin you’d overlooked. But over time… it numbs you. Or worse, it makes you turn on others just to climb up a color or two.”
Michelle’s eyes glistened now, not with tears exactly, but with that raw empathy only someone untouched by it could muster. She leaned forward, her psychology degree kicking in like a reflex. “It’s classic cult tactics, isn’t it? The love-bombing to draw you in, then the constant criticism to keep you off-balance. Breaking down the ego so you’re dependent on the group for validation. I read about it in class—cognitive dissonance, where you justify the abuse because leaving means admitting it was all a lie.” She shook her head, her ponytail whipping side to side as if shaking off the thought. “But hearing it from you… God, it’s not abstract. It’s real people. Real pain.”
I nodded, surprised at how her words mirrored the therapy sessions I’d clawed through after leaving. “Exactly. And the half-wives thing? That was the cherry on top. Stewart preaching celibacy for us ‘unfaithful’ peons while he played house with his chosen few. It bred jealousy, resentment—kept the drama bubbling so no one focused on the bigger picture.”
She set her mug down with a clink, her hands fidgeting in her lap. For a moment, she looked smaller, younger, like the suburban girl she’d described—sheltered from the world’s sharper edges. “I can’t imagine. My church growing up was boring, sure—sermons on kindness, bake sales for charity. Nothing like this. It makes me question… everything. Like, how do you spot it before it’s too late? What if someone I know gets pulled in?” Her voice cracked a little on the last word, and she glanced away, staring at the steam rising from a nearby espresso machine as if it held answers.
Seeing her like that—vulnerable, grappling with the darkness I’d dumped in her lap—twisted something in me. I’d wanted to share, to warn her maybe, but not to scare her. “Hey,” I said gently, reaching out to touch her arm. “That’s the grip—it lingers, makes you paranoid even after. But you’re smart, Michelle. You ask questions. That’s the antidote. Most of us in COBU stopped asking because doubt was a one-way ticket to black or the trip apartment.”
She turned back, forcing a small smile, but her eyes were still shadowed. “Thanks. It’s just… overwhelming. First time hearing about a real cult, and it’s from someone I… well, someone who’s been through it.” She hesitated, then added, “Promise me you’ll tell me more? Not just the horror stories—the how you got out part. The hope.”
I squeezed her hand, feeling a spark of that hope myself. “Deal. But next time, your turn to spill about those psych theories. Maybe you’ll help me unpack a few more shades.”
As we gathered our things and stepped out into the crisp afternoon air, I realized her reaction had cracked something open in me too. Michelle wasn’t just an audience; she was a mirror, reflecting back the absurdity and the ache. And in her fresh horror, her unjaded questions, I saw a path forward—away from the colors, the votes, the invisible grip that had held me for so long.
Heighten emotional intensity
Chapter 2: Shades of Devotion (Continued)
Michelle’s hand flew to her mouth the instant the words “lower brown ghoul” left my lips again, as if saying them aloud might summon something dark into the coffee shop. Her eyes, usually bright and quick to laugh, filled with a sudden, glassy sheen. She didn’t blink. She didn’t move. For a long second the hum of the espresso machine and the clatter of cups faded into a distant roar, and all I could hear was the shallow pull of her breath.
“That’s… that’s not judgment,” she whispered, voice cracking like thin ice. “That’s annihilation. They didn’t just call you sinful—they erased you. Turned you into a monster for looking at someone. For breathing wrong.” Her fingers trembled around the mug, the ceramic rattling softly against the saucer. “I can’t… I can’t get the picture out of my head. You, sitting on a cold floor, taped off in some corner labeled ‘lower brown,’ everyone staring, voting whether you were even human anymore.”
A single tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. She swiped at it angrily, embarrassed, but another followed. “I’m sorry,” she choked out. “I don’t know why I’m crying. It wasn’t me. But it feels like it could have been. Like it could be anyone.”
I reached for her hand, but she pulled it back—not rejecting me, just clutching both arms around herself as if holding something fragile together. Her shoulders rose and fell too fast. “I keep thinking about the half-wives,” she said, voice raw now, almost accusing. “Young women, maybe my age, handed out like trophies while the rest of you were told you weren’t worthy of love. And the trip apartment—like exile for daring to feel tired or scared or lonely. God, the cruelty of it. Dressing evil up as holiness.”
She looked up at me then, eyes fierce and wet. “How did you survive that? How are you sitting here, calm, telling me this like it’s just a story? Because it’s not. It’s a wound that never closed. I can feel it bleeding right now, just hearing it.”
The air between us felt suddenly too thin. My own throat tightened, memories I’d spent years boxing up cracking open at the edges. “I’m not calm,” I admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just… practiced at holding it in. But you’re right. It doesn’t stay buried. It leaks out in nightmares, in flinches when someone raises their voice, in the way I still catch myself scanning rooms for exits.”
Michelle’s breath hitched. She leaned forward, elbows on the table, face cradled in shaking hands. “I feel sick,” she said, muffled. “Not at you—at them. At how easily goodness can be weaponized. At how close any of us could come to that edge without realizing.” She lifted her head, mascara smudged, defiance burning through the tears. “I want to scream. I want to go back in time and pull every single person out of those rooms. Especially you.”
The rawness in her voice undid me. Something inside my chest tore open, a pressure I hadn’t known was there suddenly released. My own eyes stung. “No one’s ever reacted like this,” I said hoarsely. “Most people listen politely, then change the subject. But you… you’re feeling it with me.”
“Because it’s unbearable,” she shot back, voice breaking again. “Because it should never have happened. And because I’m terrified that somewhere, right now, someone else is sitting on a taped-off floor, being voted into nothingness.”
She reached across the table this time, grabbing my hands with desperate strength, nails digging in like she was anchoring us both. “Promise me,” she said, fierce and pleading at once, “promise me you’ll never minimize this again. Not to me. Not to yourself. What they did wasn’t discipline or tough love. It was soul murder. And you survived it. That matters.”
Her grip trembled, but she didn’t let go. Neither did I.
Outside, the late afternoon light slanted gold through the windows, catching the tears on her cheeks like sparks. Inside, something heavy shifted—grief finally spoken aloud, witnessed, shared. The invisible grip loosened, not all at once, but enough to breathe.
Enough to begin.