There is something wrong with Idunn. At least, that’s what she’s convinced herself as she sits in yet another doctor’s office waiting room. She hasn’t been sleeping well, at first just waking up more exhausted than when she went to bed, but other things have begun to happen; things born of blood and nightmares, that leave her increasingly nervous about the root cause of her symptoms.
Her friends and colleagues are hardly helpful, repeating the same rote advice about healthy diet and exercise regimens and strict bedtime routines that she’s heard a thousand times and already tried with no success. So, when all her medical tests come back normal and her doctor suggests seeking a mental health provider instead, it prompts Idunn to unravel the secrets her body has been keeping on her own, with ruinous and terrifying consequences.
This slim novel reads like a fragmented dream diary, with stops and starts on pages that sometimes have only a few lines, but those few lines are more than enough to chill and unnerve the unwary reader. Knutsdottir’s prose mirrors the sparse Reykjavik streets Idunn traverses, delivering a maximum creepiness factor and an ending that will leave you delightfully unsettled.