The Moment Pamela Jones Escaped a Polygamous Mormon Cult (Exclusive)

I woke early, long before the sun was even a suggestion on the horizon.  

I’d barely slept all night, mind and heart racing in fear, preparing for  this day that would change everything. When the day ended, I would be one of two things: either dead, or free. Right now, either option sounded good. 

It was so cold, I could see my breath, as I rose on one elbow and gazed  at Bethany, my beautiful 20-month-old baby, sleeping soundly beside  me. I quickly undid my nightshirt and clasped her to my breast, nursing  her in the moonlight. This is it, I thought. It’s now or never. 

I’d spent more than a year planning to escape the fundamentalist,  polygamous Mormon cult where my husband kept me, the first of his six plural wives, broken and brutalized, underfed and perpetually pregnant. I had been raised since birth to serve as my husband’s handmaid and helpmeet. But at age 34, I was terrified and couldn’t hold on much  longer. We leave now, or we die trying. 

Milk-drunk and drowsy, Bethany drifted back to sleep as I slid from bed and tiptoed to the room where three of my sons slept. I woke the older two, 16-year-old Hyrum and Mosiah, nearly 13, and sent them out to feed and milk the goats. The boys were already dressed — all the kids were. I had put them to bed fully clothed, to hasten our exit in the  morning, before anyone noticed we were gone. 

Next, I woke the girls: Lucy, 14; Melanie, 11; Jennifer, 9;  and Pammy, 6, and had the older girls help the younger kids get ready, including 3-year-old Joshua Thomas. My firstborn, David Jr., almost  18, had already left home — and Mexico — to work in Colorado. 

While the kids got ready, I dressed in a hurry and went out to help Hyrum and Mosiah bring in the milk. Miles from any large city, the stars were out in full, and I shivered at a distant coyote’s mournful cry. 

In the driveway, our two vehicles huddled like silent co-conspirators: my Plymouth Voyager, and Hyrum’s white Toyota truck packed with our luggage — four little suitcases, four brightly colored Mexican blankets, one 20-ounce jug of water. That was all. Left behind were the few items my husband allowed me to own — some clothes, my wedding dress, a  handful of photos, letters from Mama, even my underwear. I was starting over with nothing but the dream of a better life. 

As I stood in the paddock, petting the goats and bidding goodbye to Shaggy, Pinta and my beloved Brownie, I looked back at our house, memorizing the dull adobe walls, cold concrete floor, three small bed rooms and single bath. We had little electricity and almost no running  water, so we hauled water from the communal greenhouse in 50-gallon barrels, then separated it into buckets for drinking and washing. We  flushed our only toilet with buckets of water twice daily, once at night and again in the morning, using dirty bathtub or dishpan water. We were an  American family, living this way at the dawn of the twenty-first century. But no longer, after today, I thought.

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Back inside, I prepared bottles of goat’s milk for Bethany and Joshua. I bottle-fed all my children until age 5, so at least they ate when the rest of us either went hungry or consumed food infested with flies, weevils or maggots. I glanced at the clock: 5:17 a.m. 

I herded the kids outside, some protesting at the early hour, stomping and dragging their feet, others remaining silent, slow-boiling with excitement. Hyrum and Mosiah climbed into the truck while I loaded the others into the Voyager before going back inside, Bethany on my hip, for one final walk-through. The place was spotless: cupboards cleared, beds made, dishes washed and stored. Since birth it had been drilled into me that if I ever tried to leave the cult, God would punish me by taking my life and my children’s, and I feared I was about to die. But I was determined to go with a clean house and a clear conscience. 

As I approached the front door and prepared to cross the threshold, I held Bethany close while I had it out with my God, my savior, judge and redeemer. “Take me now,” I challenged. “If this is it, I’ll explain my actions to you in Heaven.” 

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With my free hand, I touched the screen door and thought of my beloved half-brother Clary, one of the closest of my 61 siblings. Clary had installed the screen door to keep out the flies and mosquitos.  But when my husband saw it, he was furious; he saw it as a vanity from the devil, and — sin of sins — “of the world.” 

I deserved this screen door, I thought. Just like I deserve freedom. Taking a deep breath, I stepped over the threshold. As the door rattled shut behind  me, I opened my eyes. I was still alive. 

Excerpted with permission from Pamela Jones’ The Dirt Beneath Our Door (Matt Holt Books; September 2025)

The Dirt Beneath Our Door by Pamela Jones hits shelves on Sept. 9 and is available now for preorder, wherever books are sold.