They walked away from a Missouri cult. Now they’re warning anyone who’ll listen.

It's just a few blocks north of the bars, restaurants and shops that line East Main Street. Faith groups have called the building home since the 1930s.

Last year, a nonprofit bought it, and a sign soon appeared outside: Saint Sophia's Antecedent Orthodox Church.

The nonprofit is run by Anthony Merseal, a 38-year-old Festus resident who has for more than two decades led what he and some former followers have called cults.

And his reemergence in this town of 13,000 along the Mississippi River, 34 miles south of St. Louis, is making those former followers nervous.

They're worried Merseal's following might grow, and several have begun to act. They've lodged complaints with local police departments. They've contacted an attorney who specializes in suing cults. One former follower, Brandice Huffman, launched a social media campaign to try to stop Merseal from recruiting members.

"I need more victims to come forward," Huffman wrote on a Facebook page she started in April, "even if you think too much time has passed or that your story is too small."

Since at least 2004, Merseal has collected small groups of followers in Bonne Terre, Farmington and now Festus, according to 11 former members interviewed by the Post-Dispatch. He is charismatic, mesmerizing and manipulative, they say. He creates a belief system that draws from Christianity, Judaism, magic, fantasy and the supernatural.

Members, for example, say they were told they were dragons in past lives; that God sent Merseal as an angel to build an army to fight in Armageddon; that Merseal is a priest, part of a worldwide order of divine prophets that has existed for thousands of years; and that St. Francois State Park was the site of a sacred city ruled by The Order of the White Road, the name of one of his groups.

Ex-followers say Merseal uses these doctrines to manipulate people financially, socially and sometimes sexually.

Merseal didn't respond to multiple attempts to reach him. But criminal defense attorney Richard Lozano, who said he represents Merseal, said Merseal is aware of the accusations, denies wrongdoing, and "has no interest in litigating these accusations in the media."

The congregation of Saint Sophia's is a small group united by God, community and a desire to make the world a better place, the group said in the email from Lozano.

"We are an affirming church and believe that everyone is deserving of love no matter what their background is, who they love or how they identify," the statement said. "We respect the inherent dignity and free-will of all human beings, and welcome anyone to engage with our church freely and in the spirit of shared respect."

Merseal hasn't been charged with any crimes. There are no pending lawsuits.

Former followers have contacted various law enforcement agencies. But Festus Police Chief Doug Wendel said his department doesn't "operate off of rumors." The Jefferson County Sheriff's Department didn't respond to requests for comment. The Missouri Attorney General's Office told Huffman it "has elected to not take any action at this time." In St. Francois County, a sheriff's lieutenant said he couldn't find evidence of an investigation by the office.

Even an international attorney — known as the "cult assassin" — said she couldn't help.

It's nearly impossible to sue a spiritual leader without clear evidence of wrongdoing in a country that protects religious freedom, said Carol Merchasin, who's based in New Jersey and specializes in lawsuits against cults.

But it's clear, she said, that cults can hurt people and sometimes ruin lives.

"It takes their childhoods," Merchasin said, "their adulthoods."

Who is Anthony Merseal?

Merseal grew up around Bonne Terre, a city of about 6,600 in southeastern Missouri, and went to the high school there. He graduated in 2003.

Many kids at the school were poor and raised in strict religious households, said Hannah Waller, a former Merseal follower who now lives in Fenton.

Waller remembers several churches starting up in the area in the early 2000s. Merseal's efforts didn't seem unusual.

"It wasn't alarming to anyone," Waller said. "People are looking for something to give them a sense of worth, a sense of belonging."

Merseal doesn't have much of a footprint in public records or online. Jefferson County records don't show him owning a home or a car. In St. Francois County, an Anthony J. Merseal has owned a Dodge Ram truck, a Dodge Dart, and a home on Louise Street in Bonne Terre. 

Over the years, he has lived in apartments, and at least twice in homes owned by his followers. He has held services in homes, a banquet hall, an old funeral home and, now, for the first time, a church building. 

Merseal is gifted with computers, former followers said, and in 2017 his wife, Kala Bertram, started a business called Next Era Technologies. A dormant social media account for the business advertises web and software development services and logo design.

In 2021, Merseal and Bertram started Simple Software Solutions, offering development plus marketing and tech support.

Today, he lives in a two-story house near South Adams Park in Festus with at least three followers. 

In some videos on YouTube, he appears in a priest's collar. 

The 'Dragonball Z' cult

Alessa Fenris was the new kid at North County High in Bonne Terre in 2003.

The 14-year-old freshman was interested in learning martial arts. A friend told her Merseal, who had just graduated, could teach her.

Merseal, almost 18 then, knew the basics of martial arts, Fenris said, and she learned some in weekly trainings.

"It wasn't long before Anthony started making claims that he was the chosen one, the right hand of God meant to train people to fight in the apocalypse," Fenris said. "At the time, it honestly felt more like a game."

Other kids in school called them the "Dragonball Z cult" after a popular Japanese anime series because its members believed in manipulating energy like the show's characters.

It sounded childish, Fenris said, like kids pretending to be cartoon characters. But being a member was intense. Fenris and other members, no more than a handful at the time, were expected to participate in weekly "trainings" to prepare for the apocalypse. Sometimes they'd watch movies or participate in role-playing games. Other times, they'd do strength and speed training.

"Think very military," said former follower Tabitha Dippel Brown, who attended North County High.

Dippel Brown recalled going to a mound of mining waste, called a chat dump, outside Bonne Terre in the middle of the night. They practiced training poses and stances while Merseal screamed orders. If anyone made a mistake, they'd have to run laps. Once, Dippel Brown said, Merseal made her fight a friend; every time one landed a hit, the other would have to remove an article of clothing.

"I didn't last very long," Dippel Brown said. "I gave up when I was stripped down to my bra and underwear. I was forced to kneel in the dirt, and it was freezing, for what felt like hours while the others fought."

During another "training" in the summer of 2004, Fenris vomited and blacked out running relays. She dropped out after the incident.

After she left, two 14-year-olds joined, she said. 

Fenris had a crush on one of the 14-year-olds, and was friends with the other. In the hopes of drawing them away from Merseal, Fenris rejoined in the fall of 2004.

By then, Merseal had taken the younger of the two teenagers as his so-called "wife," several followers said. Merseal was going on 19 then — more than four years older than the teen. Another member had taken the other teenager, about three years younger than him, as his "wife." 

The two teens, who are in their mid-30s now, confirmed Fenris' account in recent interviews with the Post-Dispatch. Neither teen reported wrongdoing to the police.

'An army of warriors'

Huffman met Merseal at a friend's house in Bonne Terre after her junior prom in 2006, when she was 17.

Merseal drew her outside. It was raining, so they stood under the house's front overhang. Merseal told her God sent him that night to find her, she said, and that she was destined to be part of his divine, secret order.

Huffman grew up in a one-story house surrounded by farmland just outside Bonne Terre. She was raised in a conservative Pentecostal church. When she met Merseal, she said, he made her feel special and loved. And he gave her hope that she could be part of the chosen people when the world ended.

"I had been primed my whole life by my family to believe I was meant to be a part of God's warriors. And so when this man said that he was literally creating an army of warriors — sign me up," said Huffman, now 35 and living in Bonne Terre.

Over the next few months, Huffman recalled, Merseal revealed that he had seven dragon spirits inside him and was destined to find other dragons in their human form. He'd then build an army of 700,000 — 100,000 soldiers per dragon spirit — and fight Satan and his demons in Armageddon.

She took an oath and joined The Celestial Dragon Council in August that year. Merseal deemed her the White Dragon, a high rank. Her outside life began to fall away.

"I was still in high school and I had a job," Huffman said. "But he slowly wormed his way to put a stop to all those things. My family was the first to be cut off. I was not allowed to have any other friends outside the cult members."

Huffman's responsibility was to find ways to get the "wives," who were 16 by the time Huffman joined, to Merseal's apartment on South Division Street in Bonne Terre, where the group mostly met. Huffman would pick them up, and all three would lie to their parents and say they were spending the night at each other's houses.

In 2007, Merseal took Huffman, then 18, as his second so-called wife.

Huffman had to hand over her paychecks to support the group, she said. And Merseal appointed her to serve on his "tribunals," where people who broke his rules were sentenced to punishment.

Sometimes for the punishment, Merseal would cut the end of a leather belt and unbraid it before lashing people on their bare backs, she said.

A breaking point came the following year.

On the night of June 2, 2008, Merseal and other members were at his home when a window suddenly broke, according to a Bonne Terre police report written by Officer Chad Brown.

They thought a former member had done it. Merseal and two other members drove to the man's house and confronted him. Merseal held a knife to the man's throat, threatened to kill him, and cut the man's hand in a struggle for the weapon, the police report said. The former member called police at around 10 p.m., and Officer Brown later questioned Merseal.

Merseal asked the officer if he knew who he was.

"He then informed me he was the leader of the Bonne Terre Cult," Brown wrote in his report. "He said he had bibles and preached god. I told him I just needed to know what happened tonight."

Merseal pleaded guilty to second-degree assault, was sentenced to serve a few weeks in jail and placed on five years probation.

His followers began dropping off after that. By 2010, Huffman was one of only three members left. She stayed for four more years, before the Celestial Dragon Council died.

'I was pretty empty'

Around 2014, when Huffman was leaving the group, 19-year-old Mac Cerutti returned home to Farmington from a brief stint in the Marines.

Cerutti was raised in a conservative Christian home; his grandfather was a well-known pastor in the community. Cerutti, now 29 and living in Alabama, said he had a sheltered childhood. Most of his friends were gone when he came home — except for one who was hanging out with Merseal. Cerutti was lonely and aimless.

"I was pretty empty," Cerutti said.

Merseal befriended him, and Cerutti joined The Order of the Seven Thunders — Merseal's newest group, then — in 2015. There were at least seven members. Merseal rented out an old funeral home in Bonne Terre for meetings, Cerutti said.

In March that year, Cerutti and Merseal had a run-in with police in Farmington, where Cerutti lived.

Officer Richard Baker received a call from a reporter with the Daily Journal, a newspaper in nearby Park Hills.

The reporter told him she had spoken with a woman who said she had been in a cult, and that Cerutti was harassing and threatening her, according to the officer's report.

A 19-year-old woman and Cerutti, 20, previously lived together as roommates "and during that time were involved in a cult of some sort called 'The Order,'" Baker wrote in his report. The cult required the woman to sign a contract agreeing not to talk about the group.

"When she threatened to go to the newspaper about the cult, she was threatened," Baker wrote.

A few days later, Baker spoke with Cerutti, who told him the group wasn't called "The Order." They called it the "New Christian Calling Church." Cerutti told the officer he never observed illegal activity at the church and that the pastor was "Bishop" Anthony Merseal.

Later that day, the officer contacted Merseal. They met at his church in Bonne Terre, a former funeral home, Cerutti said, and Merseal gave the officer a tour.

"I asked Mr. Merseal about the allegations of the church being a cult, targeting young adults and requiring members to sign a contract," Baker wrote in the report.

Merseal acknowledged having members sign a contract "for privacy reasons," but said he didn't target young adults and that the church was "orthodox."

Baker then told Merseal not to have any additional contact with the woman.

"He was not happy with her going to the newspaper," Baker wrote.

The case was closed.

'I decided no more'

Aaron Jerashen, of O'Fallon, Illinois, has always been interested in supernatural beliefs. During the social isolation during the COVID-19 pandemic, he decided to look online for how other people with similar interests were handling the pandemic.

Jerashen found The Order of the White Road and filled out an application to join. He had a video call with Merseal a week later, and joined in August that year.

He started with weekly online classes about philosophy and religion. He paid $25 per month, plus a $50 annual fee. It felt good to connect with others, he said.

In the spring of 2021, the group began meeting in-person, Jerashen said. Merseal could talk for hours on any given subject and sounded like an expert. There were between 20 and 30 members who took part.

At retreats twice a year in rural Missouri, Merseal would deliver prophecies. Merseal told Jerashen, who was engaged at the time to a woman outside the group, that he had to leave his fiancée if he wanted to advance in the order. Jerashen stayed with his fiancée but was regularly giving money to the group. He estimates he spent $2,000 over four years.

Last year, a member donated $200,000 to Merseal to buy a church building, Jerashen said the donor told him.

The donor did not respond to requests for comment for this story.

The building at Gray and Moore streets in Festus sold on Aug. 25 last year for $199,000, according to property records.

Merseal planned to use the red-doored church to hold services open to the public where he would recruit members, Jerashen said.

Jerashen put about $500 into helping the church get off the ground.

But it quickly became clear to Jerashen that Merseal didn't know how to run a church service. Jerashen started to doubt Merseal's beliefs. Meanwhile, Merseal and other followers had pushed two of Jerashen's best friends out over a disagreement on how the services should be run.

Jerashen said the final straw came when Merseal and another member began planning a sexual ritual, an attempt to exorcise the member's "demons."

"That night I decided no more," Jerashen said. "I was going to do whatever I could do to put a stop to it."

'They say they need your help'

Now, years later, the former followers all say they have lingering scars.

Fenris, the teen from Bonne Terre, dropped out of school in 2007.

She joined the military, but had to drop out of that too because she couldn't deal with the physical training, she said. She struggled to hold down jobs. She had children with two partners, but the relationships both failed. For years, she has relied on government disability payments to support herself and make child support payments.

"I've been working on my mental health for the last decade trying to unpack everything that happened to me in my life," Fenris said.

Cerutti, the former Marine from Farmington, faced a rape charge in 2017, which was later dropped. The year and eight days he spent in jail allowed him to distance himself from Merseal, he said.

"It literally took that before he would let me go," Cerutti said.

Cerutti moved to Alabama. He works there as a furniture salesman and cares for his grandmother. He got married, and he's thinking about having kids.

Huffman said she left Merseal after he kicked a laptop into her face in 2014. She packed her things and fled to the only friend she had left on the outside.

"When I left, I thought I destroyed him," Huffman said. "The funding was coming from me, the ability to manage and organize. I thought he was done."

Within a year, she met a man, got married and moved to Colorado. She changed phone numbers. But just in case, she texted her old number. She asked the new owner to let her know if anyone ever reached out asking for help.

She struggled to hold down a job and constantly felt stressed. But when her father-in-law became seriously ill, she and her husband moved back to Bonne Terre, into her childhood home. She took up vegetable gardening and keeping chickens.

Then, on March 21, Huffman received a text from her old phone number.

"They say they need your help with something, about a former associate you knew in Missouri," the text said.

It was Jerashen. He wanted to talk about Merseal.

Within a few weeks, Jerashen and Huffman had teamed up.

On April 7, Huffman posted her first warning on the Facebook page.

"If you were a part of their schemes," she wrote. "Please! Come forward!"

She continued posting almost daily and began messaging people she believed to be former followers. A private Facebook group she created now has about two dozen members.

Jerashen reached out to a reporter in Festus. On April 18, the Jefferson County Leader newspaper posted a story about Merseal and his group.

They now feel media attention might be the only way to spread their message.

"I do want to save people from falling for him," Huffman said. "But I also want to save the people that already fell for him."

Editor's note: This story was corrected Thursday morning to say Fenris had children in two relationships, but was not married.