Pocketses

"Children never forget to hide sweets in their pockets. The Pocket Folk never forget to collect the fingers that follow."

— Seraphis Nightvale, Librarian of the Last Home

The fire cracked and spat as Seraphis rose from her seat, pale face catching the glow. She stood without hurry, and the murmurs fell away until even the children held their breath.

“They say there are little folk in Duskworn,” she began, her voice low, precise, “thin as sticks and pale as candlewax. Their eyes burn yellow, and their mouths stretch too wide, packed close with teeth sharp as needles. They hide in the folds of coats, at the bottoms of sleeves—anywhere a child might keep sweets or coins.”

Her gaze moved across the circle, pausing on a boy clutching his sleeves too tight.

“The Witchmarked warn you—never leave your coat by an open window at night. The fae creep in with the mist, slip beneath the lining, curl into the warm dark. They wait. Always waiting.”

She let the silence linger until the fire snapped again.

“And they tell of a boy who thought the rule was only a tale to frighten him. He left his coat by the sill on festival night, its pockets fat with sugared nuts. In the morning he reached inside without thinking.”

Her pale hand made the smallest twitching gesture, and some of the children flinched.

“The pocket moved. Then it clamped shut.”

The crowd shifted, uneasy. Seraphis’s voice did not change.

“He screamed and pulled, but the more he struggled, the deeper the claws sank. His parents came running. They found him shrieking, arm wedged to the elbow, the coat thrashing like something alive. They cut the cloth away—but the hand was gone. Only blood remained, and a single sweet crushed between rows of very small teeth.”

The fire roared, and for a moment no one spoke.

“So,” Seraphis said at last, “the Kairathi teach their children a rule, whispered like a prayer before bed: shake your pockets thrice each morning, and thrice again at night. For if they are warm when they should be cold… you are not alone.”

Her eyes glimmered, sharp with amusement as they swept the circle. “Now—who left a coat in the dark tonight?”

Warnings in Threadbare Cloth

The Witchmarked — the Kairathi — are not prone to bedtime comforts. Their children grow up with warnings, not lullabies. Where common villagers keep silent about the fae, hoping ignorance will pass for safety, the Kairathi remember. Their stories are instructions disguised as fear.

And one of the most enduring is of the creatures that slip into clothing left unwatched: the Pocket Folk.

They do not arrive with pomp or trickery. They creep in with the mist. They nest in the folds of coats, in sleeves and seams, curling into the warmth where ownership lingers. From there, they wait. And when a hand reached inside, they bit.

This is not allegory. This is Duskworn.

Duskworn and the Crooked Reflection

The Faewilds once offered pocket sprites — mischievous things that stole coins and left pebbles in their place. Annoying, yes. Dangerous, not especially.

But Duskworn does not preserve mischief. It mirrors it darkly. Here, the sprite’s prank is stripped of glamour and given hunger. The result is the Pocketses: skeletal fae-things, child-small, their frames wasted like famine, their eyes glowing yellow, their mouths wide and bristling with needle-teeth.

They were not clever. They were not charming. They were patient.

Anatomy of a Parasite

• Names: Pocket Folk, Pocketses, occasionally “Mouth-Stitchers.”
• Form: Starved childlike frames, white as bone. Baleful eyes. Too-wide mouths lined with needle teeth. Spindled fingers with hooked nails, deceptively frail until they clamp down.
• Habitat: Any garment left unwatched, especially near windows or wagon-slats during mistfall. They prefer pockets filled with sweets or coins — items dense with the resonance of mine.
• Behaviour: Ambush predators. They do not stalk or lure. They simply wait until flesh intrudes.
• Diet: Flesh, yes — fingers most often. But more insidious is their taste for possession itself. Toys, coins, or charms placed in their keeping are forgotten by the owner, as though they were never theirs.

The Rule of Thrice

The Kairathi teach their children a simple defence:
“Shake your pockets thrice each morning, and thrice again at night.”

It is not superstition. The rhythm itself unsettles the fold in which the fae crouch. Salt scattered in a lining will bar them. Turning a pocket inside-out may drive them out. But when one had already clamped down, there was no gentle remedy. Cut away the garment or lose the hand.

Festivals saw the greatest number of attacks — nights when coats were cast aside, bulging with sugared nuts or stolen coins. Entire camps had taken to burning abandoned garments rather than risk an infestation.

The Boy and the Sweet

Every telling ended the same way. A careless boy left his coat by a window. He reached for his sugared nuts at dawn. His pocket twitched. His hand never came back.

Only a single sweet remained, crushed between too many teeth.

Final Thought

The Pocket Folk are not stories invented to frighten children into obedience. They are field reports disguised as folklore. Call them sprites, fae, or parasites — the name matters less than the warning.

If a pocket is warm when it should be cold, do not argue with it. Shake it, salt it, or burn it.

And grieve the coat later.