The quizzical slant of Caleb's raised brow suggests a train of thought along roughly the same lines as the previous narrative. "Cut that shit out," he suggests, kindly, sliding down the wall across with the unstudied grace sometimes bestowed upon tall boys with long limbs. "I mean, apologizin' for the spirits of the unhappy dead is just a bad place to start, right off."
He sighs, possibly on emotional par with the idea that their room is infested by termites or some such frustrating yet ordinary thing. "Get anything from it?"
Like does it need them to find a pocket watch or go yell at someone's father, or whatever; in his experience those are the kinds of things restless spirits usually seek.