What I Buried for Diddy in His Tunnels Still Haunts Me | HO

I’ve spent years in the flooring business, earning a reputation as one of the best in the trade. What started as a simple skill turned into a full-fledged business, and I built a team around me of guys who were eager to learn. We were a small crew, but we worked hard, and I made sure to teach them everything I knew. It wasn’t just about the money; it was about survival for them, about carving out a future in a new country while supporting families back home. For me, it felt like mentorship — a way to give back what I had received from others earlier in my life.

One day, I received a call from the flooring company I subcontracted for. They said they had something big for me — a job that had to be perfect because the client was Diddy. Now, I’ll admit, I didn’t know who Diddy was at first. I didn’t follow social media or keep up with celebrity news, but the excitement in the voice on the other end of the line was enough to tell me this job was something special. It was a 10,000 square foot basement that needed flooring. A basement that size is like an entire mansion in itself.

As soon as I told my crew, they were ecstatic. They asked about the pay, and the guy on the phone mentioned it would be enough for us to take a long vacation afterward. That got everyone even more excited. They were all on board, eager to take on the challenge. They insisted it was fine if it was tough, that we should do it ourselves and keep the money among us.

The pay was one thing, but I knew this would be a challenge. Still, the excitement was contagious, and we dove into the job without looking back. We wrapped up our current project and prepared ourselves for what we knew would be a tough but lucrative gig. When we arrived at the flooring company to pick up the materials, I could hardly believe what I saw. The tiles we were using were no ordinary tiles. These were handcrafted black marble tiles, inlaid with diamonds, abalone shell, and onyx. Each tile cost a staggering $1 million. The total worth of the tiles for this basement? A mind-boggling $10 million.

My team was in awe of the luxury, and they immediately started imagining how much money they’d be making. But as much as I was impressed, I had a creeping sense of unease. This was unlike any job I had ever done before. The mansion we were headed to wasn’t just large — it was massive. Towering gates, high walls, and security everywhere. It was the kind of place you read about in magazines or see in movies but never imagine stepping foot inside.

The moment we arrived, we were stopped at the gate by security. They told us we’d have to hand over our phones, sign a pile of paperwork, and keep everything confidential. I skimmed the documents — they weren’t about the usual liability waivers but had strange clauses about secrecy, about not asking questions, and not talking about what we saw. That raised the hairs on the back of my neck, but my crew, eager to start, told me to just sign it and get on with it. Reluctantly, I did.

Once inside the gates, the mansion was even more surreal. Everything, and I mean everything, was covered in those expensive tiles, sparkling in the light, gleaming with luxury. But the place was oddly empty. There were no staff bustling about, no family members walking around — just a few guards and security cameras everywhere. The feeling of being watched was unsettling.

Then came the basement. Or rather, the tunnel they called a basement. It was long, narrow, and freezing cold, like stepping into a giant freezer. It felt intentionally sterile, and when I was given a jacket to wear, it only added to the cold, uncomfortable vibe. What struck me the most was the eerie absence of cameras in the basement. There were cameras everywhere in the mansion, but down here? None. It was as though they didn’t want anyone knowing what went on in this part of the house.

We were told to wait. The floor had been stripped, and before we could begin laying the luxurious tiles, some bags had to be brought down. The guards returned with large, heavy bags — the kind you might see at a butcher’s shop. But these weren’t filled with meat. They had labels on them — human names. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Vince, Michael, and others. The bags were freshly laid on the floor, some were old and discolored, and the smell was unbearable — like rotting meat mixed with something frozen.

At that moment, my heart sank. These weren’t just bags of supplies — they were bags with human remains inside. The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. I wanted to ask the guards about the bags, but one of them stopped me cold. He simply said, “Do your job, and don’t worry about ours.”

That’s when the gravity of the situation hit me. We weren’t just installing flooring in a luxury basement. We were covering up something dark and unspeakable. The secrecy, the cold, the bags — it was all starting to make sense. The mansion wasn’t just a high-class residence; it was part of something much darker.

We worked long hours, and it wasn’t just the sheer size of the basement that wore us out. It was the oppressive cold, the stench of death, and the constant feeling of being watched. Every time I bent down to lay a tile, I couldn’t stop thinking about the bags beneath the floor. They were real people, and their bodies were buried under the luxury tiles we were installing. We were sealing them in, hiding the evidence.

As the days passed, things only grew worse. We were told to stay at the mansion overnight — a suggestion I immediately hated. I was exhausted, and the last thing I wanted was to stay in that creepy place overnight. But when I refused, the guard’s tone turned threatening. He told me we weren’t going anywhere, that if we tried to leave, we’d regret it. He even made me call my family to tell them I wouldn’t be home. The guard stood right there, watching me as I spoke to my wife. I could barely get the words out.

Inside the mansion, cameras were everywhere — even in the room where we were supposed to rest. It felt like they were monitoring our every move. I tried to sleep, but it was impossible. My mind raced, replaying the horror of the basement, the bags, the names.

The next day, we were told to keep working. But something new had happened. More workers showed up, moving quickly and quietly, installing something in the ceiling. I couldn’t see what they were doing, but it felt like they were hiding something. I wanted to ask questions, but I kept my mouth shut.

When we finally finished the job and laid the last of the tiles, something even more chilling happened. Guards came into the tunnel, bringing people in with bags over their heads. They moved them with precision, like they had done this before. My stomach churned. I couldn’t understand what I was witnessing, but I knew one thing for sure — this wasn’t just about a flooring job. It was part of a much bigger, darker operation.

As we packed up to leave, a guard handed me our payment. My crew was ecstatic — they counted the money and talked about how worth it the hard work was. But for me, it felt wrong. Dirty.

I left that mansion feeling like I had just been a small part of something far darker than I could ever understand. We had done our job, but in the end, the only thing I could think about was the people buried under the tiles. I’m haunted by the memory of those bags, the names, and the knowledge that we helped cover up something monstrous.

As I drove away, I realized something: no one would ever know what happened in that mansion, and it wasn’t going to be through us. No matter how hard I tried to forget, I couldn’t. The truth would never come out. And I would always carry the weight of what I buried for Diddy in those tunnels.