Publisher Description

In this haunting and riveting firsthand account, a survivor of Jim Jones's Peoples Temple opens up the shadowy world of cults and shows how anyone can fall under their spell.

"A suspenseful tale of escape that reads like a satisfying thriller.... The most important personal testimony to emerge from the Jonestown tragedy." —Chicago Tribune

A high-level member of Jim Jones's Peoples Temple for seven years, Deborah Layton escaped his infamous commune in the Guyanese jungle, leaving behind her mother, her older brother, and many friends. She returned to the United States with warnings of impending disaster, but her pleas for help fell on skeptical ears, and shortly thereafter, in November 1978, the Jonestown massacre shocked the world. Seductive Poison is both an unflinching historical document and a suspenseful story of intrigue, power, and murder.

Author Biography

DEBORAH LAYTON was born in Tooele, Utah, in 1953. She grew up in Berkeley, California, and attended high school in Yorkshire, England. After her escape from Jonestown, Guyana, in May 1978, she worked on the trading floor of an investment banking firm in San Francisco. She lives with her family in the San Francisco Bay Area.

Review

"A suspenseful tale of escape that reads like a satisfying thriller, Layton's account is the most important personal testimony to emerge from the Jonestown tragedy." —Chicago Tribune

"A fascinating account of a debacle that continues to resonate." —Entertainment Weekly

"Shattering." —The Boston Globe

"An emotionally articulate and gripping account." —The Nation

"Why do apparently normal people surrender in body and soul to a charismatic egomaniac? Deborah Layton knows. This haunting book, written with candor and passion reads like a thriller. I could not put it down." —Isabel Allende

"An absolutely riveting story, told as memoir but with the pulse-pounding suspense of a murder mystery. I read Layton's account non-stop through the night, unable to let go, struck by the realization that this is not simply an account of a bygone tragedy. It has great relevance to many of the terrible events we see unfolding today, for this is a story about those who seek a better world and are then inextricably caught in a plan to end it. This is a universal tale about ideology gone awry." —Amy Tan

"Deborah Layton is the unsung hero of Jonestown and her gripping and brave story kept me glued to the page. An essential read for those seeking to understand what went wrong in Peoples Temple/ Jonestown." —Julia Scheeres, New York Times bestselling author of Jesus Land: A Memoir and A Thousand Lives: The Untold Story of Hope, Deception, and Survival at Jonestown

"Deborah Layton's account of the notorious Jonestown disaster explains the timeless allure and peril of charismatic cult figures."
—Adrienne Mayor, author of The Poison King: The Life and Legend of Mithradates, Rome's Deadliest Enemy

"Seductive Poison is beautiful writing, deep psychological insight, and heart-pounding narrative, but above all it is antidote to the political poison of our time."
—John C. Wathey, author of The Illusion of God's Presence: The Biological Origins of Spiritual Longing

"Fiercely relevant. . . . Layton's compelling first hand account shows how ordinary people became trapped in a web of lies and conspiracy theories, clinging on to the promise of salvation as they marched towards their doom." —Mick West, author of Escaping The Rabbit Hole

"Deborah Layton's fierce commitment in bearing witness to the atrocities in Jonestown of 1978 serves as an urgent reminder to all of us. We cannot afford to ignore these lessons about the underlying causes as well as the devastating consequences of blind devotion, manipulation, and dehumanization. Remembrance combined with unflinching vigilance are not only necessary, they are our only hope for a transformed future."  —Elizabeth Rosner, author of Survivor Cafe: The Legacy of Trauma and the Labyrinth of Memory

"We are living in an age where it's nearly impossible to discern between reality and fiction. I had a similar feeling during the filming of Jonestown: The Life and Death of Peoples Temple, and then again when I first read Deborah's book, Seductive Poison. Deborah's storytelling grips you from the beginning all the way through to the end. . . . You'll be enthralled, appalled, and intrigued. You won't want to put it down until you finish. This book should be republished every few years for more generations to know about Jonestown, and the People's Temple." --Stanley Nelson, MacArthur genius, director, flmmaker, emmy award winner for Jonestown: The Life and Death of Peoples Temple, PBS The American Experience

"In this time of demagoguery, greed, fear mongering and race baiting, we are watching the fabric of our lives being shredded by individuals we have elected to represent us. . . . How strange that, Seductive Poison, by Deborah Layton should have such relevance today. . . . Layton writes with painful honesty. . . . Seductive Poison reminds us of the dangers of foregoing the right to question and challenge those we elect to lead, and how we should never give our right to make decisions to others; that we must always stay alert and involved with the direction and governance of our society. . . . These are lessons that are particularly relevant today." Guy Johnson--poet and author of Standing at the Scratch Line and Echoes of a Distant Summer

Review Quote

"A suspenseful tale of escape that reads like a satisfying thriller, Layton's account is the most important personal testimony to emerge from the Jonestown tragedy." --Chicago Tribune "A fascinating account of a debacle that continues to resonate." --Entertainment Weekly "Shattering." --The Boston Globe "Vividly written and powerfully told." --Librarby Journal "An emotionally articulate and gripping account." --The Nation

Excerpt from Book

Chapter One Secrets and Shadows My mother was a mystery to me. Beautiful, often quiet, she secretly sketched portraits of women, closing her portfolio whenever I came unexpectedly into the sunroom. I often felt I was intruding on someone unfamiliar and interrupting something quite private. She seemed like a shadow, her silhouette casting a haze on my imperfect form. Always gentle and kind, she coddled me and continually asked after my thoughts. I sensed that she was worried about me and desperately wanted to protect me, but I had no idea from what. In return, from a very young age, I felt protective of her. Every evening she would lie next to me and read aloud. I loved the sound of her voice, soothing and warm. My favorite poem was Walter de la Mare''s "Sleepyhead." The way in which Mama pronounced each word lulled me into a trance. I begged her to read it over and over again, especially one segment: "Come away, Child, and play Light with the gnomies; In a mound Green and round, That''s where their home is. "Honey sweet, Curds to eat, Cream and frumenty, Shells and beads, Poppy seeds, You shall have plenty." But as soon as I stooped in the dim moonlight To put on my stocking and my shoe, The sweet sweet singing died sadly away, And the light of the morning peeped through ... After the fifth reading, when we''d finished saying the Lord''s Prayer, I''d plead with her not to leave me. When she finally rose and kissed me gently on the cheek, then closed the door behind her, believing I was asleep, I would cry. She seemed so sad, like a fairy princess in a moated castle, and I grieved for her. My mother, Lisa, was born to Anita and Hugo Philip in 1915. Although she shared few of her childhood stories with me, I had glimpses into her past. It was my father who bragged about her life. I knew she was proud and had grown up in Hamburg surrounded by vast amounts of art and culture. Concert musicians used to play in her extraordinarily modern home that was designed and built by her cousin through marriage, Ernst Hochfeld, a pioneer of the Bauhaus architectural era. There were built-in cabinets for their extensive art collection, a humidity-controlled vault for Grandpa''s tobacco and cigars, and the beloved music room where Mama''s Steinway and her father''s Guadagnini violin were kept. Mama explained on several occasions that the bronze nude in our living room was not an object to snicker at but a famous sculpture, Die Erwachende ("The Awakening") by Klimsch and that she loved it. I understood that her father had packed it together with a few other valuables and brought it from Germany. Why her parents hadn''t hired a moving company to ship all their belongings from Hamburg was a question that never seemed to be answered. There was the beautifully shaped silver cutlery we used daily, some exquisite jewelry Mama kept in her silk-embroidered jewelry box, and several large pieces of art, paintings and sculptures that Grandpa Hugo and Grandma Anita had personally carried to America. I loved hearing the story attached to each one. There was an etching of Albert Einstein, signed by the genius himself, his hands so dirty his fingerprints showed clearly next to his signature, and an etching of Pablo Casals tuning his cello, signed by the maestro. Beatrice d''Este of Ferrara, the painting commissioned by my grandfather in Italy that stared away past me in the library, wore a headdress of leather and pearls and was covered in a maroon dress with a luxurious black velvet cape. I often wished the statue on the table, a beautiful bronze woman, her bared breasts firm, her long, sleek legs taut as she stretched upward on her toes, had considered wearing clothes on the day of her posing. My mother''s legs were beautiful, too. I loved to sit on her bed each morning and watch her pull her stockings up over her ankles, then point her toes and extend her legs into the air as she attached the silk to her black garter.My mother was what I wanted to be: an enchanting enigma. I sensed that my mother missed her life in Germany. The past seemed to consume and console her. When I was a little older I wondered what it must have been like to leave a place one deeply loved, all one''s friends and relatives, and never see them again. But it was many years before I grasped that my mother''s world was filled with sorrow, guilt, and regret. And it wasn''t until years after that that I learned why. Long before I came onto the scene, my m

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