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Publish or Perish

by Julia LaFond

 

Cynthia Blanche wasn’t credited as the first author on her own paper. She wasn’t the second, the third, or even the fourth. The Modern Journal of Phantasmology listed her as the last and least fifth author, which meant Dr. Redbud had screwed her over once again.

If Cynthia weren’t patient, she never would have made it through her candidacy exam, so she patiently barged into Dr. Redbud’s office.

“Could you please explain why I’m not the PI for my paper on the sulfur content of ectoplasm?”

Rolling his eyes, he swiveled away from his array of monitors. “The reviewers reached out to me and said they wanted us to determine the allotrope of the sulfur — when an element has multiple physical forms, each one is called an allotrope —”

Cynthia obviously knew what an allotrope was, but she also knew better than to interrupt Dr. Redbud when he was mansplaining.

“So I went ahead and ran some analyses of your samples. Adding that in meant practically rewriting the paper —”

“You did what?” She hadn’t gotten past the byline, but now she was going to have to pore over the whole thing to find out how badly he’d butchered it.

“Anyway, it was good timing: we needed to publish something to keep the university grant committee off our backs.”

Without her bracelet to fidget with, she was struggling not to clench her fists. “If you left me as first author, it still would have been a publication from our lab! And I needed that paper to pass my comprehensive exams!”

She barely kept herself from condescendingly “explaining” that comps required demonstrating she could handle independent research, and therefore she needed to get credit for her own work to complete the next step toward her PhD.

Her adviser furrowed his brow. “What about the one researching chemical traces left by exspiravition?”
Cynthia was half-surprised he didn’t explain “exspiravition” was the formal term for the separation of the soul from the body but was usually used exclusively in the context of deaths that generated apparitions.

“When you kindly submitted it for me . . .” — a mistake she’d been determined not to repeat, for all the good that did — “. . . you made Henry first author because he scouted the death sites.” Dr. Redbud had also put himself as the second author despite delegating every aspect of the project, pushing Cynthia to last place.

“Oh, right! He needed a third publication for his thesis. By the way, could you help him brush up on analytical techniques for his defense?”

If spontaneous combustion were a genuine phenomenon, Cynthia would have undergone it. Instead, she took a deep, shuddering breath.

“Now I’m the one who needs a paper.” She stared Dr. Redbud dead in the eye. “Unless you’d like to explain to my committee why I’m deferring comps for the third time?”

He shrugged and turned back to his monitors. “Just keep chugging on the Henderson Collection. It’s a guaranteed paper in The Phantasmology Review.”

Cynthia muttered, “Will you steal credit for that, too?”

“What was that?” he asked, looking up sharply.

“Nothing,” she sighed, shoulders drooping. “Have a nice day.”

She returned to the lab as listlessly as a freshly exspiravited wisp. Getting into the country’s leading phantasmology lab was a dream come true, but it had morphed into a nightmare. The only way out was to publish her own research, but how could she do that when Dr. Redbud kept shoving her to the bottom of the author list? Even if she graduated, Cynthia wouldn’t be able to land a postdoc with such a slim bibliography. Her PhD was supposed to be the start of her career, not the final nail in her coffin.

A loud bang made Cynthia jump out of her skin. Shaking her head, she went to inspect the spectral storage units currently housing the Henderson Collection. The glorified wall-length iron filing cabinet was supposedly rated for up to Class 3 thanatohazards: the spirits attached to the ninety-three anchors stored inside shouldn’t be able to appear (Class 1), manipulate physical objects (Class 2), or exert mental influence (Class 3). Nevertheless, Drawer 2C had once again been yanked open by whichever spirit was protesting its new surroundings.

“I’m sorry,” Cynthia murmured, easing the drawer closed. “I can’t send you back until the end of the loan, but I can exclude your anchor from the analysis. If you want.”

The drawer shot open, hitting her square in the knee. Biting back profanity, Cynthia taped a binding circle over the front of the poltergeist’s drawer. It wasn’t a long-term solution, but it just needed to last until Dr. Redbud got around to ordering more sage.

Letting one frustration bleed into another, she scrolled through her inbox in search of the submission confirmation from The Modern Journal of Phantasmology. Since the reviewers were supposed to send their comments directly to her, she wanted to let the journal know about the breakdown of the peer review process. But no matter how hard she looked, she couldn’t find the original email. She must have accidentally deleted it. Without any proof of the reviewers’ flagrant misconduct, she might as well have let Dr. Redbud submit the exspiravition paper. In fact, if she didn’t remember otherwise, she might have thought she really had repeated her mistake.

When she turned around to find Drawer 7E hanging open, it was all Cynthia could do not to scream.

“Have you figured it out yet?” whispered a voice too familiar to belong to anyone she actually knew.

“You’re one of us prisoners.”

Cynthia gritted her teeth and slammed the drawer in the Larua’s metaphorical face.

---

The worst part of analyzing samples was the trip back from the Materials Science Department. Specifically the intersection between Poplar Place and Mercy Street, where drivers pointedly ignored the twenty-five mile-per-hour speed limit and sometimes also the stoplight. While she waited for an opening, Cynthia scowled down at the storm drain she suspected of swallowing up her bracelet.

Frantically dashing across the road was the only thing that could have kept her from noticing the cord (presumably) snapping, scattering the plastic beads across the pavement. Whether or not that’s what had happened, if her beloved bracelet hadn’t turned up after two weeks of searching, she was never getting her sister’s handiwork back.

The light turned green. Cynthia looked both ways, clutched her bag of samples tighter, and bolted. She arrived on the other side breathless but otherwise intact.

“There wasn’t anything for you to fear.”

Cynthia whipped around, half-expecting to find a masked apparition hovering over her shoulder. The Larua wasn’t visible, though, and didn’t say anything else — assuming she wasn’t hearing things. Cynthia inhaled deeply, trying to smell sulfur, but four and a half years in a phantasmology lab meant she always carried its stench with her.

She hurried back to the lab, chased by a growing sense of unease at an apparition manifesting so far from its anchor.

Once she put the samples in her storage cabinet and double-checked the spectral storage unit, she breathed easier at finding nothing amiss. Maybe it was just her imagination after all.

Drawer 2C banged open right in front of her, binding circle and all. Scowling, Cynthia slammed it shut and opened her laptop. The Henderson Estate was supposed to have sent a complete inventory of the anchors, but all she got was a document certifying that none of the ninety-three objects rose above a Class 1 thanatohazard. Since she was dealing with both a Class 2 and a Class 3, she sent a rather pointed message to the collections manager. Until then, she’d just have to assume all the anchors were potentially Class 3.

Having arrived at that conclusion, the last thing she wanted to do was sample any artifacts. As tempting as it was to call it a day, however, the only way she could get a first-authored publication by the end of the semester was to finish her preliminary analyses by the end of the week. With thirty-one anchors left to sample, she’d need to get in five or six a day, which would be even more difficult with the cumbersome Class 3 protocols. So she rolled up her sleeves, donned her PPE, and prepared the counter for anchor 6C.
In stormed Dr. Redbud, slamming the door with the vigor of an angry poltergeist.

“Henry’s skipping out on us for the next two weeks,” he barked. “Something about a ‘family emergency’ and ‘needing to be there for them.’” He rolled his eyes, though Cynthia wasn’t sure whether it was because he didn’t believe there was an emergency or because he didn’t believe anyone would rank it above their research. “You’ll be filling in for his office hours.” He slapped a syllabus onto the counter, smudging Cynthia’s protective chalk circles. “Also, be sure to monitor his grave transects every morning. The last thing we need is a gap in the data.”

Cynthia wanted to protest that she had her hands full with her own research, but instead she found herself nodding and smiling. It was only once Dr. Redbud left that she hurled a handful of salt at the closed door, wallowing in futile defiance.

“You’re more powerful than you realize. You don’t have to let him treat you like that.”

“I do if I want to graduate.”

She’d just talked to the Larua. Gasping and covering her mouth, Cynthia whirled around, wondering how she could have been so careless.

Drawer 7E was still closed, but she wasn’t relieved: apparitions clever enough to bide their time were far more dangerous than those that immediately wielded whatever power they were granted. Cynthia, once again wishing Dr. Redbud would order a fresh shipment of sage, caked the drawer in salt, covered the salt in duct tape, and drew a binding circle on top.

---

When the Henderson Estate finally sent the files Cynthia requested, she started by figuring out which anchor had ended up in drawer 7E. It was a mother-of pearl-pen knife that allegedly had an echo attached to it. Considering the apparition was clearly capable of more than repeating overheard snatches of conversation, their assessment was laughably off the mark. Combined with the “mysterious” fire that had destroyed the anchor’s supporting documentation, it seemed likely the Larua didn’t want anyone discovering its true nature.

Why risk it now?

A chill prickled down Cynthia’s spine, but she refused to turn around. The less she acknowledged the Larua’s manifestations, the less sway it had over her.

Biting her tongue, Cynthia turned her attention to 2C’s documentation. The poltergeist attached to the pocket watch was a clockmaker named Edmund Davies, and he was exspiravited via murder: his apprentice had taken not just his shop, but the blueprints for his latest invention.

Stolen credit sounded awfully familiar . . .

“Edmund,” Cynthia called out softly, removing the binding circle from 2C. “Are you upset because Dr. Redbud passed off my work as his?”

The drawer exploded open and slammed itself shut, again and again; she’d clearly struck a nerve.

“So am I, but it’s too late now. I’ll be more careful next time.”

The drawer went faster and faster until it ripped free of the shelves. It clattered to the floor, sending the black plastic secondary containment bag sliding across the laminate.

Hoping against hope the anchor hadn’t been damaged, Cynthia stooped to pick up the bag. It unzipped itself in her hands to reveal a torn piece of paper. Edmund must have stashed it away while her back was turned. She stared down at it, unsure why her heart was beating so fast. This was obviously the key to the poltergeist’s restlessness, so why was she having so much trouble bringing herself to read it?

With trembling hands, she extracted the torn half-page and held it up to the light. It was Dr. Redbud’s handwriting. He’d covered the page in phantasmological formulae she’d recognize anywhere; she’d developed them herself to analyze exspiravition sites. Except they weren’t quite right: he’d switched around the variables like he was trying to create an exspiravition site.

Cynthia slapped the page down on the counter, shaking her head. Dr. Redbud was a thoroughly unpleasant man, but not even he’d stoop to ritual murder in the name of research.

The bag opened again, and out floated a little red-and-white chunk of plastic. Cynthia couldn’t tear her eyes away as the mottled bead rolled across the counter, spinning in circles of decreasing radius until it came to rest in front of her.

It wasn’t mottled — it was bloodstained.

It hurt it hurt it hurt SO much why —

Clutching at her unadorned wrist, Cynthia stumbled out of the lab, refusing to let the puzzle pieces click together. It had to be the Larua. Edmund must be the one hiding his true nature, pretending to be a sympathetic poltergeist to trick her into talking to him. Now that she had, he was warping her perceptions to further wear down her resistance to becoming his puppet. Fresh air. She needed to go outside, far away from the anchors, to clear her mind.

No matter how far forward her feet carried her, her thoughts kept spinning in smaller and smaller circles, just like the bead had. No matter how much she tried to take deep, calming breaths, all she could smell was sulfur. No matter how much she looked around, all she could see was the bead from her lost bracelet dyed red with blood.

A horn blared, jolting her back to awareness. A van was barreling toward her.

Cynthia lunged ahead, cursing herself for being so distracted that she hadn’t looked both ways before crossing Mercy Street. Maybe this was what the Larua wanted all along: for her to walk into traffic.
Her foot snagged, and Cynthia toppled to the ground. She uselessly shielded herself with her arms, praying her death would at least be painless —

Dr. Redbud was never supposed to find out she was trying to switch advisors. Cynthia didn’t know how he found out, actually; just that he was far too angry for this to be about anything else.

First came the shouting. She’d never be good enough, she was a talentless hack, and she’d be lucky to get a job disposing of ectoplasm. He’d stuck his neck out for her, so how dare she try to run off with his research? Cynthia gritted her teeth; she just had to endure until he ran out of hot air.

Except he got louder and closer, slowly backing her into a corner. Cynthia started wondering whether he was going to grab her. They were about the same build, so she could fight back if she needed to, but surely she wouldn’t need to. He was rude, arrogant, and demanding, but he wasn’t violent!

Was he?

When he drew a knife from his pocket and the drawers rattled like distant thunder, Cynthia’s instincts took over. She shoved him back and ran, only to come face-to-face with the lab’s closed door. She was trapped.

From behind her he slipped the blade between her ribs and pushed her over; she was falling down into pain it hurt it hurt it hurt SO much why was he doing this to her?

Air rushed around her, and the sound of the engine faded. Cynthia slowly opened her eyes to find herself breathless but otherwise intact, as if the van had passed harmlessly through her.

“I told you,” the Larua said gently, “you had nothing to fear.”

The Larua. Of course it was the Larua! She must still be within range of its anchor, which meant none of this had been real. Consciously ignoring the illusory van pulling to the side of the road, Cynthia scrambled to her feet and ran ahead, determined to get clear of the apparition’s influence. Maybe then her head and her heart would stop throbbing.

Block after block blurred by until her legs couldn’t take it anymore. Gasping for breath, she tumbled to her knees in the ag students’ apple orchard. Not even a Class 4 thanatohazard could manifest this far away from its anchor, let alone a Larua. She was safe.

A sudden sharpness arced down her spine; not pain so much as a pull. Cynthia lurched to her feet, intending to steady herself against one of the many tree trunks, only to find herself staggering back toward campus. Feeling like she might throw up, Cynthia forced herself to sit on a nearby bench, slowly sipping her water. But the longer she stayed, the stronger the pull got.

Cynthia wished she wasn’t a phantasmologist, because then she might not have heard apparitions describe how it felt to be taken too far from their anchors: exactly like this. But she couldn’t have an anchor unless . . .

Unless she was dead. The bead, the accident, the memories — none of it was the Larua’s doing. It was all real, and she was dead.

Tears dripped down Cynthia’s cheeks as she stumbled back toward the lab that was now her posthumous prison. For all his cutting words, Dr. Redbud did recognize how valuable her research was. When she’d tried to leave, he murdered her and bound her to his lab so he could keep stealing credit for it. No matter how hard she worked or how careful she was, Cynthia would always be his puppet.

“That’s not true.”

Figuring talking to the Larua couldn’t possibly make things worse, Cynthia retorted, “What makes you so sure?”

“You forget how much experience I have,” the Larua murmured.

Guilt stole away her words, because they were right: for all the improvements phantasmologists were making to their codes of ethics, they weren’t required to get consent from the apparitions they studied. Now that she was one herself, the oversight was glaring.

The Larua materialized alongside her in the form of a woman with a black mask and matching dress.

“For my part, I apologize for being unable to stop him from using my anchor against you.”

Cynthia shuddered at the memory of the gleaming blade. No wonder the Larua haunted her so easily — or was it the other way around? Yet even in the midst of her horror, part of her wondered if it would make a good paper topic.

She shoved her hands into her pockets. “It’s like you said,” she muttered, staring down at the pristine white sidewalk. “We’re both prisoners.”

“Then perhaps,” the woman replied, patting Cynthia on the shoulder, “it’s time for a jailbreak.”

---

With Edmund’s help, breaking into Dr. Redbud’s office was a non-issue. The professor’s spectral containment unit was another matter. Binding circles had been worked into every inch of the iron, and not even Cynthia’s newfound ability to turn insubstantial could breach it. They spent hours in search of the code, sifting through the papers littering Dr. Redbud’s desk, but when Cynthia finally found his research notebook, she could barely bring herself to read it.

The pages were everything she feared: every piece of his gruesome research was laid out in excruciating detail. He’d killed three other people solely to learn how to exspiravite her, bind her to her own corpse, and use her newly forged anchor to make her forget she was a ghost possessing her own dead body. Now she was entirely under his control.

“Not anymore,” the Larua whispered encouragingly. “He miscalculated. You’re far too powerful for him.”
It suddenly occurred to Cynthia that for her to go beyond the geographical manifestation limit of a Class 4 thanatohazard, she must be a formerly theoretical Class 5. Unable to process that, Cynthia took a deep breath and flipped through the pages until she found the code for the safe. For the first time, she was grimly grateful for Dr. Redbud’s methods: her reanimated physical form was the only reason they could bypass his precautions.

Inside the safe was a clear plastic baggy holding together the remains of her bracelet. The cord was snapped and the beads were caked with red-brown smears: he’d utterly desecrated the carefully crafted parting gift from her sister. She wasn’t sure whether to cry or vomit.

Telling herself she’d repair the damage later, Cynthia slid the bracelet into her pocket. Power blossomed inside her like warmth, promising endless possibilities now that she was in control of her own anchor.
The Larua caught her eye. “The rest of us?”

“Right,” Cynthia muttered, slumping into Dr. Redbud’s antique wooden swivel chair. “I know we agreed on a plan, but . . .”

The memories of her death looped through her mind, stealing away every last trace of warmth. Could she really face the man who’d done that to her? If she couldn’t, it would be better to grab as many of the ninety-three anchors as she could carry and disappear into the night. If she ran far enough and hid well enough, she’d never need to see her former advisor again.

Edmund levitated a marker across a fresh notebook, laboriously scrawling out: “I believe in you.”

“As do I,” affirmed the Larua. “Otherwise, I never would have revealed myself.”

Cynthia couldn’t quite bring herself to trust their judgment, but it didn’t change what she had to do. This was the only way to make sure her murderer wouldn’t come back to haunt her.

It was still dark when Dr. Redbud finally came through the door — so dark, he didn’t notice Cynthia perched behind his desk. It gave her a much-needed moment to compose herself before she cleared her throat.

“God, you scared me half to death!” he snarled, futilely toggling the light switch. “What are you doing here so late?”

Cynthia tilted her head, enjoying seeing him on the back foot for a change. “I have to admit, it really was the perfect murder. You can’t get caught if not even your victim realizes they died.” She leaned her elbows on the table, drinking in his slow-dawning realization. “Emphasis on ‘was.’”

Despite how pale he’d grown, he drew himself up to his full height. “Cynthia Blanche, I command you to forget whatever you’ve discovered and return home at once!”

Though his words shouldn’t have had any power over her, they froze her in place. This was a mistake. Even with everyone counting on her, she couldn’t stand up to him.

“I don’t think I will,” the Larua said in Cynthia’s voice.

Cynthia sat up straighter, grateful for the assistance and for the reminder she didn’t have to stand up to him alone.

“But I bound you!” Dr. Redbud protested, shrinking toward the door. “You can’t — it’s not —”

“Possible?” Cynthia retorted, rising from her seat. “You’ve always underestimated me.”

His mouth opened and closed, and then he was frantically jiggling the doorknob. The door itself wouldn’t budge with Edmund holding it shut.

“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Cynthia intoned, rounding the desk. “You’re going to free every single apparition in the Henderson Collection.”

“Or what?” He sneered. “You’ll tell everyone I murdered you? Do that, and you can kiss your career goodbye.”

That made her flinch. Apparitions were by definition legally dead, which meant she’d forfeit not just her chance at a PhD, but any semblance of a life. He could even claim her as research material if he was feeling particularly sadistic, and he usually was.

Cynthia clutched her anchor tight, reminding herself it wouldn’t come to that.

“There’s no ‘or what,’” she replied flatly. “The only question is whether you’ll willingly cooperate with us.”

“‘Us?’”

“Yes, us,” replied the Larua in Cynthia’s voice. “You didn’t think I’d come alone, did you?”

Dr. Redbud eyed the door nervously, but his words were as arrogant as ever. “A poltergeist? I’m not afraid of a measly Class 2.” He snatched up the closest box of salt. “You’re in no position to make threats.”

The Larua materialized next to Dr. Redbud, gently levitating the box of salt away from him. “You’re right, there’s nothing to worry about. Why don’t you sit down for a nice chat?”

His breath hissed in as he realized he’d been speaking not just with Cynthia, but with a Larua. The knowledge came too late to save him.

“That does sound nice,” he said dully, slowly making his way to his desk.

“Oh, no, no,” the Larua insisted gleefully. “Right here on the floor.”

Though he flushed beet red, he obediently lowered himself to the ground.

Cynthia always thought she’d pity anyone caught in the clutches of a Larua, but she was grinning ear to ear. Her murderer deserved far worse.

“Tomorrow morning,” the Larua began, “you’re going to inform the Henderson Estate you’re moving the collection to a secondary location.”

Step by step, she coached him through the task of faking the destruction of the Henderson Collection, then handing the anchors over to Cynthia, who’d quietly help the apparitions settle into a post-life of their choosing. Though Dr. Redbud trembled and whimpered, he was unable to resist.

Her work done, the Larua vanished from sight.

“You won’t get away with this,” gasped Dr. Redbud, fixing his eyes on his former student. “You’re my creation. Once you realize you’re nothing without me, you’ll beg me to take you back.”

Staring down at the clammy, cringing phantasmologist, Cynthia knew the truth: the only strength he’d ever had was what he stole from others. She briefly considered leaving without giving him the satisfaction of a reply, but some strange whispering instinct made her stoop down and look him in the eye.

“After you free the apparitions,” she commanded, her voice sounding strange to her own ears, “you’re going to confess to all your murders except mine. You will never tell anyone I’m no longer alive.”

Dr. Redbud’s eyes glazed over as the command seared itself into his mind. There. Not only would his career crash and burn, his other three victims would get the justice they deserved.

When Dr. Redbud realized what had just happened, he whimpered, “But you’re supposed to be a Class 1!”

This time, Cynthia didn’t bother to acknowledge him. She turned away and passed through the door, silent as the grave.

---

Host Commentary

…aaaaand welcome back. That was “PUBLISH OR PERISH” by Julia LaFond, and if you enjoyed that then check out her website at

which has a fair few other stories linked—including at least two or three other podcast stories.

Julia sent us these notes on Publish or Perish: “I was fortunate to have good, supportive advisors and committee members while I completed my masters degree. Other students I knew weren’t so fortunate. It was also around this time I began getting involved in disability justice, which coincided with my awareness of certain harmful research practices. Dr. Redbud is an amalgamation of all those horror stories. This story is for anyone trapped with an abusive advisor, and for everyone who finds themselves on the wrong end of a microscope. I hope you, like Cynthia, regain control of your own fate.”

Thank you, Julia, for the notes and the story. This was great fun, but as with all great stories, there is a whole lotta truth hiding underneath it. A 2022 study[1] from NYU and Ohio State University (and given the topic, let me list the authors as Matthew B. Ross, Britta M. Glennon, Raviv Murciano-Goroff, Enrico G. Berkes, Bruce A. Weinberg & Julia I. Lane) found that, across 125,000 researchers on 10,000 projects between 2013 and 2016 at all levels of research from undergrad to senior research staff, women were 13% less likely to be credited on research papers.

To quote the abstract: “women in research teams are significantly less likely than men to be credited with authorship. The findings are consistent across three very different sources of data… The third source—qualitative responses—suggests that the reason that women are less likely to be credited is because their work is often not known, is not appreciated or is ignored.”

And from the main text, and my goodness is this damning to be emphasised as the first given cause for the productivity gender gap in scientific research: “Analysis using individual data has suggested that women are less productive because they work in less welcoming work environments.”

They go on, naturally, to reference Rosalind Franklin, whose expert work with X-ray crystallography was essential to proving that DNA was a double-helix, but who was entirely uncredited by Crick and Watson after they used her data without her permission. Her contribution to the most important advance in the history of biology wasn’t recognised until after her death. This paragraph from a Guardian article[2] on the topic says it all: “Ironically, the data provided by Franklin to the MRC were virtually identical to those she presented at a small seminar in King’s in autumn 1951, when Jim Watson was in the audience. Had Watson bothered to take notes during her talk, instead of idly musing about her dress sense and her looks, he would have provided Crick with the vital numerical evidence 15 months before the breakthrough finally came.”

And of course, none of this can be untangled from the repeatedly proven point, across decades of research, that despite the stereotype of women talking more than men, it is, in fact, the opposite; and that men are more likely to interrupt women; and that women’s contributions in a meeting are more easily falsely attributed afterwards to a man than the converse. As Deborah Tannen, professor of linguistics, puts it[3]: “In public forums, women tend to talk less, and — to the detriment of everyone involved — their ideas, insights and perspectives are less likely to be heard.”

My outros often muse on topics that are too big to have an obvious first step on the path to resolution, but this one, as endemic as it is, is really quite straightforward: Just. Bloody. Listen.

[1] https://www.nature.com/articles/s41586-022-04966-w

[2]

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