Years ago while vacationing in Rome, I and my friends took a bus far into the surrounding countryside in order to visit some ancient catacombs. After a lengthy tour of the many dark and creepy underground burial chambers, we were ushered into a small medieval chapel located directly above. 


Among the many artifacts present in the chapel was a life-size wooden replica of Jesus nailed to the cross; old, worn, and dusty. The paint on his head was chipped and mostly gone, the expression on his face was sad and forlorn. His eyes were carved tightly shut.


Our guide explained that this particular representation of Christ was rumored to open its eyes and stare on occasion, so  when the tour was over, I held back while the others—my friends included—filed out of the echoey room. 


Once alone, I respectfully approached the wooden statue, looked up intently at the age-worn face, and for several minutes scrutinized it for any sign of movement. 


As expected, none came; the eyes remained closed.