“In 2010, We Dug Rooms In The Tunnel For Diddy, And I Still Can’t Live In Peace”
HO
In 2010, we worked on a secret project for Sean ‘Diddy’ Combs, building rooms in
an underground tunnel. What we saw there still haunts me to this day. This is the
untold story.
When I look back at 2010, it’s not with nostalgia. It’s with a gnawing unease, a
chilling dread that never lets me sleep soundly. That was the year I took a
construction job that should’ve just been a paycheck. Instead, it became the
shadow looming over my life—a chapter of horror I can’t escape.
The job came through my cousin, A1, a guy who always knew where to find quick
cash. “No questions asked,” he said. We were tasked with building underground
rooms beneath one of Sean “Diddy” Combs’ estates in New Jersey. It sounded
like shady work from the start—cash-only, no paperwork, and unusually tight
security. Still, when bills pile up, and options run thin, ethics tend to take a
backseat.
The estate was palatial, the kind of mansion that makes you feel poor just by
standing near it. But it wasn’t the grandeur above ground that stuck with me; it
was what lay beneath. A service entrance at the back of the property led to a
tunnel that stretched endlessly into the earth. The air inside was damp,
suffocating, and wrong.
Our foreman, Lou, was a gruff man who barely spoke beyond barking orders.
“Three rooms,” he said on day one. “Do your job. Don’t ask questions.” That was
all the context we got, but the work itself spoke volumes.
The first room was straightforward—a large, open space reinforced with
soundproofing. It looked like it could be a recording studio or a high-end
entertainment area. Nothing too strange.
The second room, though, raised my hackles. It was smaller, with padded walls,
thick enough to muffle anything. We installed steel chains bolted into the floors
and walls, along with heavy-duty hooks and cabinets with industrial locks. At first,
I thought it might be some kind of MMA training room. But as the work
progressed, the purpose became harder to rationalize.
The third room was the stuff of nightmares. At first, it seemed like just another
rectangular space, until they started bringing in equipment—airtight metal
containers filled with preserved animal carcasses in various stages of decay. The
smell was nauseating, even with masks. Then, there was the wall.
At the far end of the room was a mural carved directly into the concrete, covered
in bizarre symbols—pentagrams, geometric shapes, and cryptic markings. Blood,
dried and smeared, coated the carvings as if someone had used it as paint. In the
corner, there were black boxes filled with candid photographs of politicians and
celebrities. Some had dates and cryptic notes scrawled on the back.
On the last day, something even more unsettling arrived: about twenty heavy
“pizza boxes,” wrapped in tape. They didn’t feel like pizza, though. They felt…
wrong. When someone joked about a pizza party, no one laughed.
As we wrapped up the project, a man in a sharp black suit inspected our work. He
said nothing, didn’t even acknowledge us, just nodded and left. Then, Diddy
himself walked through the tunnel. He glanced at us, smiled, and said, “Keep up
the good work, fellas.”
We got paid and left, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that what we built wasn’t
meant for anything good.
The nightmares began almost immediately. I’d wake up drenched in sweat, seeing
the blood-soaked symbols or smelling the stench of decay. Then came the
paranoia. One night, I received a call from an unknown number. A low,
emotionless voice said, “Stop asking questions.” They hung up before I could
respond.
I wasn’t the only one. A1 called me weeks later, whispering that he’d gotten similar
calls. He was terrified. “They know where I live, man. They know my wife’s name.”
I started digging—not literally, but online. I looked into Diddy’s lavish parties, his
connections to powerful people. There was a pattern. Every few months, he
hosted exclusive events attended by politicians, actors, and business tycoons.
Rumors swirled about what went on at these gatherings—drugs, orgies, and
darker things. The rooms we built had to be connected, but every lead I followed
raised more questions than answers.
Then, one night, a black SUV parked outside my apartment. A man in a suit sat
inside, staring at me. He didn’t move, didn’t say a word, just watched. It felt like a
silent warning: We see you. We know you.
A1 eventually left the country. “l need to get away from this,” he said. I stayed, but
the fear stayed with me. Every time I see a black SUV or hear about another
Diddy party, my mind races. What are those rooms being used for now?
I’ve considered going to the police, but what would I even say? That I built a
dungeon for a billionaire and now I’m being followed? They’d laugh me out of the
station.
The memories are relentless. The images of those chains, the blood-streaked
mural, the containers of decaying animals—they haunt me. I try to tell myself it
was just a job, that I was only there to work, not to question. But deep down, I
know better.
Whatever we built in that tunnel wasn’t for anything good. It was for something
dark, something evil. And every day, I live with the weight of knowing I had a hand
in creating it.
