It was 11 p.m. There was a knock at the door.

I thought it was the Chinese food delivery guy. He had forgotten the egg rolls I ordered. Perhaps he had noticed this most egregious mistake when a piping-hot oblong deep-fried noodle rolled under his gas pedal on the way back to the restaurant. For the next two hours, his mistake pounded on his every thought. "The egg rolls — how could I have forgotten to give the egg rolls? What will that poor family dip in our delicious duck sauce?" Truly a man who takes pride in his superb delivery skills, he was returning to our home after the restaurant closed for the evening, I thought. Piping-hot egg rolls stayed heated in a toaster oven he bought for just such an evening, charged by his car battery, and he was coming to grovel on our steps, down on his knees, heartily apologizing.

I quickly bolted to the door, ready to embrace this young man and give him what he wanted most in life — my forgiveness. But it was not my delivery hero at the door. (Clearly, my need for 50 grams of fat from fried deliciousness had clouded any rational thought, and car-powered toaster ovens, despite their obvious marketability and universal appeal, are not a thing.) Rather, I found a middle-aged man — gruff, unshaven and wearing pajama pants — waiting at my door.

"Can I help you?" I asked through the window.

"Let me in," he demanded.

"Umm. No."

"But I need a place to sleep," he said. "Let me in."

"You can't sleep here, dude."

"Fine. Where's town?"

Town? I live in the wild. Town is far from a short walk away. It also happened to be where my husband was attending a concert that night. I looked at this pajama-clad nightwalker. Where had he come from if he didn't know where town was? The woods? The lake? My little slice of paradise was beginning to feel like the setting from the "Friday the 13th" movies. And the lake I live on is even named Crystal Lake! Jason is at my door! I repeat, Jason is at my door! This is not a drill!

I looked over at my alarm system. It was on, so at least the police would be notified after the hockey-masked killer barged in.

I told Jason — er, pajama man — to go out to the main road, take a right and keep walking. After one more plea to come inside, Jason walked away. I immediately called my next-door neighbor. She persuaded me to call the cops. Apparently, when you live on Crystal Lake, you don't take random nightwalkers from the woods who may or may not have an affinity for hockey masks lightly.

Despite my living in the wild, another neighbor of mine is a cop, so three police cars were at my home practically the moment I hung up the phone. They came with huge flashlights and cased the property, looking for anyone who might be lurking. And then, in a swift, unified motion, they all ran back to their cars and sped off.

"They probably were alerted to an actual crime," my neighbor said. "I sure hope that man isn't somehow magically in your house somewhere."

Thanks.

Luckily, the man wasn't in my house. He was in a neighbor's. That neighbor had called the cops, and my friendly flashlight-holding officers had rushed to apprehend Jason — er, pajama man. When asked what he was doing in the house, pajama man said he had been sleepwalking. He said he had sleepwalked all the way into the wild from town. He was given a ride home.

Come morning, fellow residents of the wild alerted cops that their cars had been broken into, precious items and purses stolen. An RV had been ransacked. Apparently, sleepwalking was only half the story. He also sleep-stole.

During a sleepwalking episode when I was a kid, I took my dog for a stroll around the neighborhood. When my mom found me at 2 a.m. on the front lawn, my dog was still in the house, but I held his leash in my hand. Leave it to me to do chores in my sleep when I could have been sleep-thieving. Perhaps tonight, I will sleepwalk back to that Chinese restaurant and sleep-eat some egg rolls.

I deserve the comfort food.

Katiedid Langrock is author of the book "Stop Farting in the Pyramids," available at http://www.creators.com/books/stop-farting-in-the-pyramids. Like Katiedid Langrock on Facebook, at http://www.facebook.com/katiedidhumor. To find out more about her and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate webpage at www.creators.com.