I tore open Schroeder’s History of Cults in the ruins of a desert compound. The sky was a bruise, wind scraping sand through the hollowed-out walls. Each chapter was like a skeleton coming alive—spines rattling, mouths opening to whisper the commands that once bent thousands to their knees. I traced the pulse of indoctrination like a cartographer mapping a river of molten steel. Jonestown’s water, Heaven’s Gate’s starry promises, the Moonies’ shiny uniforms—they all became threads in the same electric web, sparking across my vision.

Turn the page and suddenly you’re walking beside the founder, feeling the heartbeat of ritual in your chest. Schroeder sketches every trap, every subtle pressure, every twisted incentive, but it reads like an architectural blueprint for madness, carved with scalpel and cigarette ash. By the end, I wasn’t reading about cults; I was listening to their machinery, ticking like a heart in the chest of a corpse, understanding the language of obedience before words even existed

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