Wilhelm von Murnau was born on the longest, darkest night of the year, as a storm-wind full of phantom voices rattled the shutters of his mother’s birthing-room. All but her most faithful servants cowered in fear. He drew his first breath on one side of midnight, and his younger twin, Weyland, took his on the other. Unlike their older siblings Frederick and Franziska, the boys were strange and fey from earliest childhood: secretive, silent, and more comfortable with each other than with the rest of the family. Their father made no secret of his dismay with them, distrusting the strong bond between them, the way they seemed to share one soul and one mind between two bodies. His prejudice filtered down to the rest of their kin to greater or lesser degree.