Holding his breath for what seemed like an eternity before he heard Clark's voice, he only exhaled when he heard him respond. His grip on the crow bar was vice and his knuckles were ghostly white. It was hard to breathe through all the worry he felt and beads of sweat clung to his forehead. His black hair was a mess. Everything a mess really. His sporty conservative white shirt was dirty from debris and smoke. His hands finally stopped shaking at least. That was a ghost. A real live ghost. So to speak.
"I don't know, I don't know!" He repeated as he looked around for the ghost that'd attacked them. He didn't see it anywhere, but he had the iron infront of them just incase. His eyes met Clark's. They were more steady then he felt inside. He was running on adrenaline and fear. But physically he looked fine if not for a little bruise on his head. "I swung the thing at it and it was just gone!"