The Ice Cold Truth of Iceland

The plane touched down in Reykjavik just after midnight. The window next to me, frosted over from the arctic air, barely let in the moonlight as we taxied to the gate. My breath left small clouds on the glass, a soft condensation mixing with my growing apprehension. I hadn’t planned to come to Iceland. In fact, it was the last place I imagined I’d be, but fate has a way of twisting your arm when you’re looking the other way.

The airport was small, quieter than most, and unnervingly efficient. A handful of sleepy travelers, swaddled in wool scarves and down jackets, moved with the kind of purpose that only comes from experience in the cold. I, on the other hand, was underdressed, unprepared, and feeling every gust of wind that hit me as I walked toward the rental car lot. There was no turning back now.

I’d been hired to find someone. A woman, to be precise. Someone who’d vanished somewhere along the icy fjords of this strange, isolated island. Her husband — a man with too much money and not enough sense — was convinced she hadn’t just left. He was sure something darker was at play, and when people like him are convinced, they pay well for others to share their conviction.

The roads outside the city stretched long and empty, a dark ribbon cutting through an expanse of snow and rock. Iceland was less a country and more a landscape, as if someone had decided to build a civilization on the surface of the moon. The isolation was palpable, heavy, and in the silence of the car, it felt like I was driving straight into nothing.

By the time I reached the small coastal town where she’d last been seen, dawn was creeping in — soft blues and pinks illuminating the distant mountains. It was the kind of beauty that could almost make you forget why you were there. Almost.

The locals didn’t say much. It’s not that they were unfriendly, they just had the air of people who’d seen enough outsiders come and go, chasing myths and mysteries in a land that didn’t care much for either. I checked into the only hotel — a small, wood-paneled building that creaked with the weight of old stories and even older winters. The woman behind the counter handed me a key without a word, her eyes lingering a little too long on the bundle of papers tucked under my arm.

The room was small but warm. I unpacked the files and spread them out across the bed. Photos, emails, a few hastily scribbled notes from her friends and family. Nothing concrete. Nothing that screamed, “This is where she went.” Just the same vague unease that clung to everyone who’d known her.

By noon, I was outside again, walking the frozen streets. The air smelled of sulfur, a constant reminder of the volcanic heartbeat beneath the ground. Steam rose from vents in the earth, twisting into the cold sky like ghosts escaping from ancient burial mounds. I had a few leads, all thin, all unreliable. One of the locals said she’d been spotted hiking toward a glacier a few days before she disappeared. Another claimed she’d been seen leaving a bar with a man, though the description was as vague as it was contradictory.

But Iceland has a way of swallowing people whole. Between the black sand beaches and the jagged cliffs, there are countless ways to disappear — most of them not intentional. The cold here isn’t just weather; it’s a force of nature. One wrong step, one miscalculation, and the land takes you.

I rented a snowmobile and set out for the glacier. The vastness of the terrain was disorienting, a white canvas broken only by the occasional outcrop of volcanic rock. As I climbed higher, the temperature dropped, and soon, the wind was a constant, biting presence. I stopped at the base of the glacier, its massive wall of ice looming ahead like some ancient titan frozen in time.

And there, in the snow, were tracks.

They were faint, almost lost beneath the fresh layer of powder, but they were there — leading up toward the ice. I followed them, my heart pounding in time with the crunch of my boots. Something wasn’t right. The tracks were too straight, too deliberate. Whoever made them wasn’t lost.

I followed the trail for hours, the cold seeping into my bones, until I reached a small cave near the glacier’s edge. The opening was narrow, just wide enough for a person to slip through. I hesitated, the weight of the situation pressing down on me. This wasn’t what I had signed up for. But curiosity has a way of getting the better of me, and before I knew it, I was inside.

The cave was deeper than I expected, twisting and turning in ways that defied logic. The walls were smooth, almost polished, and the temperature inside was even colder than outside. My breath came in short, sharp bursts as I made my way further in, the faint sound of dripping water echoing in the distance.

And then I saw her.

She was sitting against the far wall, her back to me, her body still and motionless. Her hair, long and dark, hung around her face like a veil, obscuring her features. For a moment, I thought she was dead, but then I heard it — the softest whisper of breath, barely audible over the sound of the ice.

I approached slowly, the crunch of my boots on the frozen floor the only sound. She didn’t move, didn’t react as I crouched beside her. Her skin was pale, almost translucent, and her eyes, when they finally met mine, were wide and glassy.

“They told me not to come here,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and broken. “But I had to know.”

“Know what?” I asked, my breath visible in the frigid air.

She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “There are things beneath the ice…things we’re not meant to see.”

I wanted to ask more, but before I could, the cave trembled. A low, rumbling sound echoed from deep within the glacier, and the walls around us seemed to vibrate with the force of it. I grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet, and together we ran, the sound of cracking ice following us as we stumbled out of the cave.

When we finally made it back to the snowmobile, I glanced back at the glacier. The cave had collapsed, a massive wall of ice sealing it off from the world.

We rode back in silence, the wind biting at our faces, neither of us speaking. When we reached the town, she disappeared without a word, vanishing into the icy streets as quickly as she had appeared.

I never saw her again. And I never told anyone what happened out there on the glacier. Some things are better left buried.

But I can’t help but wonder — what else is beneath the ice?