I once thought someone broke into the basement of the house where I was babysitting. I told the kids we were playing Hide and Seek, and hid them safely, with instructions not to talk or come out until I called them by name. Arming myself with a frying pan, I called my parents to let them know what was happening, as well as the people for whom I was sitting (no 911 in those days and I wasn’t absolutely sure I was correct).
It turned out to be an elderly carpenter who often came over on a motzai Shabbos to do repair work in the basement for them, and had been given a key to the house. My employers had forgotten to mention it to me, but they put me at ease about our safety but told him to go home and leave the key with me, as they “needed to give it to a relative for the week, who was staying by them.”
I told the kids they had been great Hide and Seekers, gave them a treat, and put them to bed. My father had stayed on the phone (they had two lines) with me all that time. He was two minutes away and would have come immediately, but I didn’t want him to. All in all, it was a “fun” night, once my heart rate settled down.