When Clint was little, his brother used to frighten him with lurid tales of the supernatural that tended to involve an unexplained or unavenged death, creaking doors, and goosebumps galore (assisted by Barney running threads over Clint's scrunched up scaredy-face).

As a teen, Clint had snuck into a Saturday matinee performance of Ghostbusters, gagging appropriately at the gallons of slime; the fanged hellhounds; and the idea that either Rick Moranis or Bill Murray might be considered appropriate mates for Sigourney Weaver.

He wipes the ectoplasm off his face now, nocks another proton energy arrow and - after reassuring himself that Natasha has in fact reverted back to her usual human form - declares that as ghost stories go, he much prefers Barney's approach.