The Haunted Touch of Dean Tan's Hands

by Anthony Kaauamo

This article features Dean Tan’s 2023 Halloween yard creation and the inspiration behind his yearly displays. I’ve taken my kids trick-or-treating through Olopua Woods for years, always stopping by his house to admire the effort he puts in. Wanting to go behind the scenes and understand how it all comes together, I set out to learn more. Due to the timing of last year’s publication, we held the story for this issue.

Halloween, October 31, 2023, 6:29 p.m. – Olopua Woods (Up-City)

It was quiet. Too quiet. The sun clung to the horizon, casting its dying light across the empty streets. Dean expected the keiki to start showing at 4:30 p.m., dragging their parents along, eager for candy and laughter before the night truly fell. But no, not a single step, not a whisper of movement disturbed the stillness. It was 6:33 p.m. when the first trick-or-treaters entered the street, just as the light faded.

Dean and I knew this was the moment. Head to toe in black — black gloves, black suits, even full black masks covering our faces. We had to disappear, to become shadows ourselves, merging with the black-suited mannequins positioned around the yard. To blend in, we needed to be still. Dead still. And yet — inside my chest, my heart pounded. Not a steady beat — no, nothing so calm, so orderly — but a wild, erratic drumming, like the beat of a thousand wings, like madness itself. Could they hear it? No, impossible, but it roared in my ears, filling my head, as though it might spill from my very body, betraying me to the night.

Standing there, I realized how far I had come from just being an observer. I hadn’t planned to get involved, not at first. My intention was to watch from the sidelines to document Dean’s work. But when he asked me to join, something about the challenge drew me in. Maybe it was the excitement in his voice, or maybe it was the idea of stepping into something outside my comfort zone. Either way, I found myself standing there, suited up, blending into the display. The stakes had shifted. This wasn’t just a story I was writing; I was part of it now.

Dean’s voice echoed in my mind, lingering longer than it should have, like a thought you can’t shake. “You don’t have to do much,” he had said. “Just a simple movement, and they’ll jump. They always do.”

Dean’s yard did most of the work, drawing visitors in with each unsettling detail. To the far right, the “Keiki Corner” — so innocent, so deceptively cheerful. Three plump, orange pumpkins with wide eyes, their grins so fixed, so happy. They sat in dry hay, lifeless, and yet … watching. Behind them, a towering inflatable tree with red, glowing eyes and a ghostly figure twisting around its branches.

Then, to the left, a broken-down pickup truck sat with a “skeleton crew” hard at work — their skeletal remains, flesh long since rotted away, frozen in a grim parody of life. The driver sat slumped in the seat, its bones twisted in a death grip around the steering wheel. Another, with its bleached bones exposed, leaned under the hood as though still toiling on an engine that would never run again. In the truck bed, a third was perched, its hollow eye sockets staring blankly into the night, lifeless but still alert.

The fog thickened, rolling over the gravestones. The tombstones stood tall, silent watchers marking the territory of the dead. Ghouls, barely visible in the mist, floated between them, suspended from strings, caught between this world and the next. And in the center, the dragon. A skeleton dragon, enormous, with bony wings stretched wide, as if poised to leap from its perch at any moment.

But there, in the tree across the sidewalk — you wouldn’t see it at first. Just a crag, hidden in the bark, harmless. But then the lightning flashed, and the truth was revealed: a monstrous, severed head, its vacant eyes glowing from deep within, sharp teeth grinning with menace.

And you ask yourself, what is real? What will move when I turn my back?

Past Themes and Notable Displays

On Halloween night, Lama Street in Olopua Woods (Up-City) becomes a spectral celebration, where supernatural displays mix with laughter and revelry, and neighbors celebrate in the strange and the macabre. The northern end of the street begins with Alicia and Robert Bennet’s home, where their yard brims with half-buried bodies clawing their way from the earth, giant cobwebs ensnaring helpless human prey, and wraiths lurking in the shadows, waiting to strike. Further down, the “Sarme Army” host their annual themed party. In 2023, they went with a Greek mythology theme, and for 2024, they plan a Hollywood, celebrity-inspired setup. Amidst these displays is Dean’s own yard, showcasing his haunted touch.

For over a decade, Dean’s yard has featured evolving Halloween displays, with each year building on the last. The 2023 setup was the latest in a series of detailed themes. Previous years have included scenes inspired by “Pirates of the Caribbean,” Camelot, and Disney’s “Haunted Mansion.” “I try to make something different every time,” Dean said.

His “Pirates of the Caribbean” setup — complete with mannequins dressed as pirates, ghostly deckhands and a shipwrecked scene — attracted trick-or-treaters who nervously approached, half-expecting the figures to come to life. “I even had skeletons steering a ship’s wheel,” Dean said. 

Dean’s eldest son, Craig, used to join in, dressing as a scarecrow and standing completely still in the yard. “People would get close, trying to figure out if he was real,” Dean said. “As soon as they got near, he’d jump out and scare them — it was an adrenaline rush.” The year Dean focused on Disney’s “Haunted Mansion” theme, he projected floating disembodied heads onto blank mannequins, creating the illusion of ghostly figures. His Camelot theme featured massive pillars, faux knights, swords and a throne, though some of the plywood structures didn’t survive the rain that year. “By the end of the night, everything was soaking,” Dean said with a smile.

Family and Community Ties

Dean’s family has long been a part of his Halloween tradition. His wife, Jan, works as the school health aide at Lāna‘i High & Elementary School and is also a nursing assistant at Lāna‘i Community Hospital. Their five sons — Craig, Matthew, Kevin, Blake and Alika — all graduated from LHES, with the youngest, Alika, graduating in 2018.

Jan often hears from students at school talking about their Halloween experiences in the yard. “They talk about it for weeks afterward,” Dean said, recalling stories Jan shared with him.

Dean was born and raised in Southern California after his parents moved there from Honolulu. His mother, Dorothy, who grew up on Lāna‘i, met his father in Honolulu before they eventually settled in California. Despite the distance, Dean’s connection to Lāna‘i was marked by regular summer visits to his grandmother, Maura Dahang. “You could smell the bread rising before the sun came up,” Dean said, describing the warmth that filled his grandmother’s kitchen. “The butter melting on fresh bread right out of the oven — that’s something I’ll never forget.” Eventually, Maura opened Dahang’s Bakery, which she ran for years before selling it in 1991, when it became Blue Ginger Café.

After graduating from high school in California in 1979, Dean worked in microcircuitry manufacturing for military subcontracting. However, when industry downsizing led to his layoff, he began searching for a new direction. In 1986, he moved to Honolulu to study culinary arts at Leeward College. It was there, while working in the cafeteria, that he first met Jan, who was also a student.

“I was working at the BLT station in the cafeteria,” Dean recalled. “If they wanted a BLT sandwich, they had to come to me. I had the bacon, tomato, toast and everything. Jan came in one day and asked for one, and I made it for her. Then she goes, ‘Can I have extra bacon inside the BLT?’” Dean laughed as he recounted how that became a regular request. Their first meeting, over a BLT, set the stage for a lifelong partnership that eventually led them to Lāna‘i.

Not long after, Dean heard about an opening at the Lodge at Kō‘ele on Lāna‘i, marking a turning point for the couple. In 1989, they decided to take the opportunity, moving to Lāna‘i and beginning a new chapter in both their personal and professional lives. Dean worked at Kō‘ele as a Cook II until his retirement in the 2010s.

Reflecting on the move, Dean acknowledged the adjustment it required. “It was a bit of a culture shock at first,” he said, “but looking back, and five kids later, it’s where we built our life, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Dean’s Creative Process and Entertainment Background

Dean draws inspiration for his Halloween displays from visits to theme parks like Disneyland and Knott’s Berry Farm. He recalled walking through the fog-filled mazes at Knott’s, with lights flashing and monsters jumping out from hidden spots. “Adults were getting scared more than kids,” he said, laughing as he remembered his wife and cousin squeezing his arms in fear. “We don’t have anything like that here, so I figured, why not bring a bit of that to Lāna‘i?” That blend of eerie excitement is what he aims to recreate in his own yard every Halloween.

From a young age in California, Dean was involved in entertainment. When his cousins started a band, he began by managing the lighting for their performances. Soon after, he joined them in playing music. “I did the lights at first, but eventually I couldn’t resist picking up an instrument,” Dean said. Later, on Lāna‘i, he became a percussionist with the band Alapa Drive, playing alongside Isaac Zablan on drums, Neil Rabacca on bass and Bobby Zarsoza on guitar. His time playing with Alapa Drive taught him how to read an audience and tailor his performance to what would get the best response. “When I was with the band, you learned to feel the crowd, to talk to them, not just play,” Dean said. “I think I bring some of that here with the yard. It’s about knowing your audience, seeing what will get a reaction, just like any good entertainer should.”

His love for entertaining and Halloween pushes him to create something memorable each year. “The kids light up when they see the yard,” Dean said. “That makes it all worth it.”

“When I was with the band, you learned to feel the crowd, to talk to them, not just play...It’s about knowing your audience, seeing what will get a reaction, just like any good entertainer should.”

The Gear Behind the Jump Scares

Over time, Dean has steadily built up a variety of gear to create the immersive effects he aims for each year, often purchasing items on sale or negotiating their purchase with his wife. “I’ll tell Jan, ‘We can use this for other things,’” he said, trying to highlight their practical uses beyond Halloween. Still, it’s not always that simple. “If you start doing things just on your own without consulting, your marriage will come apart. You have to communicate. You have to explain things and make it work for both of us.”

From sound to visuals, each piece of gear plays a role in crafting the otherworldly atmosphere Dean strives for. The Perfect Storm 2.0, an audio-activated effects box, synchronizes lightning flashes with thunderclaps for realism. “The lightning flashes right when the thunder hits — it’s details like that which make it stand out,” Dean said. Speakers placed around the yard deliver soundtracks and bursts of noise, while a fog machine blankets the area in mist.

But as Dean has aged, the process of setting up has become more challenging. “Anthony, as I got older, my times between prepping — there’s more breaks. It takes me longer to do something, because I have to string up ropes and cords. It’s not easy because you have to take a ladder. I got my 12-foot ladder to put up there. It’s not easy to move. It takes some time. If I have to do it during the sun … then time out,” he said.

Breaking down the setup and storing everything after Halloween is just as much a part of the tradition as putting it up. “It’s like being a musician. You hear the music, but no one sees the work of carrying the amps, wrapping the wires and putting everything away,” Dean said. “If you’re going to do it, you have to love it.”

September 7, 2023: The Inspiration of Alan Emmel

The inspiration for Dean’s 2023 Halloween setup came from a story I shared with him about my former neighbor, Alan Emmel, a retired teacher who often worked as a substitute at Lāna‘i High & Elementary School when I was a student. It was Halloween, years ago, when he left an unintentionally eerie impression on my kids when they were still little.

It was well past sundown, and Mr. Emmel, who carries a broad and towering presence, sat in a small lawn chair in his front yard, silhouetted against the soft glow of his garage light. He wasn’t dressed up, and there were no decorations — just him sitting there as himself waiting to pass out treats — but his outline alone spooked my kids more than any other Halloween setup or costumes we came across that night. They were too scared to go up and get candy, nervously darting their eyes and whispering, “Who is that? Can we go there?” The scene stuck with them, and they ended up avoiding Mr. Emmel’s house entirely that evening.

I had first shared this story with Dean during our initial interview, a “talk story” session that, like many of my interviews, stretched on for a couple of hours. What might have looked like casual conversation was really the foundation of understanding how Dean approaches his Halloween setups. When I brought up Mr. Emmel, we were talking about different ways people react to fear.

“Hmmm,” Dean wondered aloud as his eyes drifted toward the growing afternoon shadows on his living room ceiling. “Anthony, you started something,” he said. The image of Mr. Emmel — sitting there, faceless, motionless, allowing people to project their own fears onto him — had planted a seed of inspiration deep in Dean. The fear of the unknown, the unsettling presence, the way it pushed people into the uncanny valley where things seemed almost real, but not quite. “You started something,” he said. The hair on my arms raised as I watched the shadows shift in the reflection of his glasses. “You started something,” he repeated, quieter now, as the dark idea grew within him.

Halloween, October 31, 2023 – Olopua Woods (Up-City)

What Dean had envisioned that dark afternoon in September took shape in the form of four mannequins, each dressed in black. He stood them upright, attaching them to wooden poles, which were then secured to stakes driven into the ground, making them appear as though they stood on their own. “I wanted people to think, ‘Are these just props, or could one of them move at any moment?’” Dean said. His goal was to keep visitors on edge, constantly questioning what was real and what was decoration.

The effect was the same as Mr. Emmel’s that night years ago — a stillness that let people’s imaginations fill in the blanks. Just as my kids had been too scared to approach Mr. Emmel, visitors here would be drawn in by the mannequins, unsure if they were props or something far more alive.

In order to heighten the effect, Dean didn’t rely on mannequins alone — no, some would be real people, namely Dean … and me. I hadn’t planned to take part, not at all, but Dean’s fixation was infectious, and I was beginning to feel myself possessed by the same compulsion to bring these creations to life.

The plan was for us to dress identically to the mannequins, head to toe in black, including full black head masks. We would position ourselves on opposite ends of the driveway, standing motionless alongside the figures, waiting for the perfect moment to spring to life and startle anyone who ventured too close.

Dean stood motionless, his dark figure blending seamlessly with the mannequins as the fog thickened around us. It rolled heavily over the gravestones, while the dragon’s skeletal wings loomed ominously above the driveway. Visitors wandered through the displays of the yard. At “Keiki Corner,” some of the little ones had their photos taken by their parents, standing among the glowing pumpkins and flickering lights. Further into the yard, teenagers gravitated toward the skeleton crew in the broken-down pickup truck, snapping selfies and daring each other to touch the twisted bones.

The first scream of the night came from a teenage girl — a sharp, startled cry that echoed through the yard. “Especially the teenage girls, they’ll actually scream,” Dean had said. “The little kids will be nervous, but the older ones scream.” There was a strange power in standing perfectly still, letting the visitors’ imaginations run wild as they wondered whether we were real or just one of the mannequins. And when they turned their backs, I would follow in silence, moving only when they weren’t looking. The sudden, subtle shifts — just enough to make them second-guess — were the perfect touch.

As the hours passed, the shift was complete. What had begun the moment I agreed to be part of the display was now fully realized — I wasn’t just watching anymore. I had become part of it, fully immersed, a willing participant in the game of fear Dean had orchestrated. The line between observer and perpetrator had blurred, and I moved through the shadows with purpose, relishing the thrill of unsettling those who wandered too close.

“And the old guys too, the men, if you catch them, they’ll scream too,” Dean added. “Even the big macho guys trying to act like they won’t get scared. They’ll scream sometimes the loudest.”

Then came Ivy Batoon, wandering a bit too close. He’d been eyeing me for a while, squinting in the dim light, trying to figure out if I was real. I waited, motionless, biding my time. Just as he came within reach, I sprang to life with a quick “Boo!” His scream, shrill and high-pitched, carried even more weight coming from someone his size. Dean’s laughter broke through the fog as he stood across the yard, watching it unfold. “That’s what makes it worth it,” he said, his voice muffled through his mask. “Seeing them go from curiosity to absolute shock in seconds.”

Dean’s mother, Aunty Dorothy, had her own role in the production. She stood calmly at the end of the driveway, handing out candy to anyone brave enough to make it through the maze of shadow people. It was like a twisted rite of passage, where the reward for their bravery was a simple treat.

And then there was Jan — our anchor to the real world, like Marilyn from “The Munsters,” the normal one amidst all the chaos. She acted as a safeguard, making sure the younger keiki weren’t too frightened by the experience. “Keiki coming! Don’t scare,” she would call out, guiding them carefully to Aunty Dorothy for their reward. But for everyone else — especially the older kids and adults — there was no holding back. Dean and I embraced the night fully, creeping, stalking and sending shockwaves of fear through anyone who dared enter the yard.

But like all things, the night eventually wore away, taking the shadows with it. As the final group of trick-or-treaters wandered off and the fog began to thin, there was a sense of satisfaction. We had done it. The yard, the costumes, the scares — they had all worked just as Dean had envisioned. He removed his mask, grinning as we shut down the sound effects, the lighting, and the fog machines. For that night, we had embraced a temporary change — stepping into roles that weren’t ours in the daylight, becoming part of something darker. “People are scared. There’s a lot of people who are scared of change ... With that being said, you have to change,” Dean said. It was a reminder that to fully live, we must embrace change, even when it leads us into the shadows.