When I Am 64

 Arthur Pringle was a man of simple pleasures. He liked his tea lukewarm, his slippers fuzzy, and his life entirely devoid of anything that went bump in the night.

He lived in a cottage that smelled permanently of boiled cabbage and damp wool. On the eve of his sixty-fourth birthday, he sat in his armchair, staring at the calendar. He hummed a jaunty, slightly off-key tune to himself.

"When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now," he crooned, patting his thinning pate.

Suddenly, the floorboards groaned. Not the usual "old house" creak, but a sound like a rhythmic, wet rhythmic thudding. Arthur froze. The cellar door, which he had locked with three padlocks and a heavy iron bolt, began to rattle.

"Will you still be sending me a valentine?" Arthur whispered, his voice trembling. He grabbed his cane. "Birthday greetings, bottle of wine?"

The cellar door flew off its hinges. Standing there was a creature of absolute nightmare: a towering, translucent specter with glowing red eyes and long, jagged claws. It was dripping a thick, iridescent slime that smelled distinctly of rotting daisies.

The ghost drifted toward Arthur, its jaw unhinging to reveal rows of needle-like teeth.

Arthur stood up, his knees popping like bubble wrap. He adjusted his spectacles. "If I've been out till quarter to three," he declared, his voice cracking, "would you lock the door?"

The ghost paused, tilting its head. It seemed genuinely confused by the sheer mundanity of the question. It hissed, a sound like a thousand angry wasps, and pointed a spectral claw at Arthur’s throat.

Arthur didn't run. He was sixty-four, and frankly, he didn't have the cardiovascular stamina for a chase. Instead, he brandished his knitting needle. "Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm sixty-four?"

The ghost recoiled. It seemed to be trying to comprehend the lyrics. It let out a mournful wail, which sounded suspiciously like a frustrated sigh.

"You see," Arthur continued, emboldened by the creature’s hesitation, "every summer we can rent a cottage in the Isle of Wight, if it's not too dear."

The ghost lunged. Arthur ducked, narrowly missing a swipe that took the top off his favorite armchair.

"I could be handy, mending a fuse, when your lights have gone!" Arthur shouted, scrambling behind the sofa.

The ghost stopped. It looked at the flickering bulb in the ceiling, then back at Arthur. It lowered its claws, looking suddenly sheepish. It reached out a spindly, translucent finger and poked the light fixture. Pop. The light died completely.

The room plunged into darkness, save for the ghost’s glowing crimson eyes.

"You'll be older too," Arthur whispered into the pitch black, his heart hammering against his ribs. "And if you say the word, I could stay with you."

The ghost stopped hissing. It made a soft, clicking sound. It seemed to be considering the proposal. Perhaps it was lonely down in the dark, damp cellar. Maybe a nice cup of tea and a rendition of a Beatles classic was exactly what it needed to move on to the afterlife.

The creature drifted over and sat on the sofa. It looked pointedly at the empty tea service.

Arthur sighed, his terror replaced by the crushing reality of domestic responsibility. He shuffled to the kitchen. "I’ll put the kettle on," he grumbled. "But you’re doing the dishes. I’m sixty-four, not a miracle worker."

The ghost nodded solemnly.

Arthur poured the hot water. "You know," he muttered to the specter, "I always thought the afterlife would be more... spectral."

The ghost clinked its spectral saucer against the cup. It sounded remarkably like a beat.

Arthur sighed, picked up his cane, and began to tap a rhythm on the floorboards. "Give me your answer, fill in a form..."

The ghost groaned—a long, melodic, supernatural moan that hit the perfect B-flat.

It was going to be a long birthday.