In 2015, I Was Diddy’s Plumber, and What I Found Hidden in His Basement Will Shock You

In the world of high-end custom plumbing, every job is a unique adventure. But sometimes, those adventures take a dark and unexpected turn. This is the story of one such job, a tale that has haunted me ever since. It all began in late 2015, when I was working for a company specializing in bespoke plumbing installations for the ultra-wealthy. Our clients were celebrities, business moguls, and individuals with lifestyles most of us only see on TV. This particular job was for none other than Diddy himself.

The Luxurious Job

Diddy had recently purchased a mansion that we had previously worked on. He wanted to upgrade the plumbing to match his extravagant taste. The order was no joke: two sinks made entirely of rare, imported marble, solid gold faucets with embedded Swarovski crystals, and a massive jacuzzi also made of the finest marble with inlaid gemstones that lit up with custom LED lighting. The materials alone were worth a fortune, and the labor costs were no small thing either. Diddy was willing to pay extra for speed, and he made sure payments came through on time, even throwing in bonuses when we finished phases of the job ahead of schedule. It was the kind of job you dream about as a contractor.

The Unusual Basement

When the materials arrived, we got to work right away. Everything was custom-made according to Diddy’s exact specifications. The first part of the job was installing the jacuzzi. We loaded up our gear and headed to the house. The place was crawling with security, but Diddy wasn’t there. His people showed us where we’d be working, and to our surprise, it wasn’t a prime spot like a pool area or a main floor. Instead, they led us to the basement.

The basement was unlike any I’d ever seen. It wasn’t some dingy storage area or a casual hangout space. This was a full-blown entertainment zone with a bar, a small stage, and even two stripper poles. Beyond that was another large room where we were supposed to install the jacuzzi and the sinks. It struck me as odd that everything was tucked away, almost hidden, as if this space was meant for a very specific, private group of people. But hey, it wasn’t my place to ask questions. My job was simple: do the work, do it well, and get paid.

The Strange Floor

A few weeks later, I returned to start on the sinks. I was alone this time, which was fine; I preferred working solo on jobs like this. As I started installing the first sink, I noticed something odd about the floor. There was this one section that seemed to give a little under my weight, like it wasn’t as solid as the rest of the floor. I tried to ignore it, but I couldn’t. I pushed through, determined to finish the first sink. Just a few more adjustments, and it would have been perfect.

And then it happened. I stepped on that same unstable section of the floor, and this time, my foot didn’t just sink a little—it went straight through. The floor gave way completely, and my leg plunged down into this hole up to my knee. The pain hit me immediately, sharp, sudden, and completely unexpected. I let out a loud yelp followed by a string of curses that probably echoed through the whole house.

The Hidden Tunnel

After I calmed down, I pulled my leg out of the hole. The edges of the opening were rough, but I managed to get free without too much trouble. Curiosity kicked in, and I decided to see what was going on beneath the floor. I started clearing away the loose boards and plywood, uncovering a full-on opening big enough to make you stop and wonder what the hell was underneath this place.

As I stared into the hole, I heard something—a faint humming noise like machinery or power tools, maybe a drill or something similar. Then I heard voices, muffled and distant but definitely there. They were coming from deep below, far beyond what I could see from where I was standing. My first thought was, “Oh, it’s probably just maintenance work or something.” Maybe they were fixing a sewer line or installing some kind of underground system. That seemed like the logical explanation, but the more I thought about it, the less sense it made. Why would they leave the floor like this if they knew there were workers or machinery down below? Why wasn’t this area properly reinforced before we came in to install such expensive fixtures? It didn’t add up. I couldn’t just let it go. I had to know what was going on.

So, I grabbed the small ladder we’d been using in the other room and started climbing down. The sounds grew louder—the humming, the drilling, the voices. My heart was racing, and I had this weird mix of excitement and dread. When I finally reached the bottom, I shone my flashlight around and realized I wasn’t in some random hole or a forgotten crawl space. I was standing in what looked like a full-on tunnel, stretching out so far in both directions that even with my flashlight, I couldn’t see where it ended. It was too wide, too cleanly built, and somehow deliberate. It had a purpose, though I had no idea what that purpose could be.

The Mysterious Tunnel

I decided to move forward toward the sounds. The air in the tunnel was thick, heavy, and warm, almost suffocating. There was this dampness to it, like the whole space had been sealed off for years, trapping all that moisture inside. Breathing wasn’t exactly easy, and the smell was a strange mix of musty earth, rusted metal, and something else I couldn’t quite place.

I walked maybe 8 or 10 steps forward, the sound of my boots echoing faintly with each step, and then I stopped dead in my tracks. That’s when I saw it: the tunnel didn’t just stretch out straight ahead; it branched off to the side as well. Running along that side tunnel, almost disappearing into the darkness, were these narrow tracks. They were like miniature train tracks, the kind you’d imagine for a small cart or something like that. They weren’t shiny and new; they looked old, worn, and slightly rusted. It was clear they’d been used, though, and not too long ago. Someone or maybe multiple people had been moving things down here. What exactly, I had no clue. Were they workers? Was it something else? I didn’t know, and honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to find out.

For whatever reason, I decided not to follow the tracks. Instead, I stuck to the tunnel and kept moving forward. And that’s when I came across something that stopped me in my tracks again. This time, though, it wasn’t just unusual—it was downright creepy.

The Ominous Door

As I shone my flashlight to the side, the beam landed on a massive black metal door. It looked exactly like the one we’d walked through to get into the basement upstairs. The same heavy industrial design, the same ominous presence. It felt so out of place down here in the middle of this tunnel. What could possibly be behind a door like this? And more importantly, why was there even a room down here at all?

I hesitated for a moment, just standing there and staring at it. A thousand questions raced through my mind: Who built this? Why? What’s it for? I couldn’t make sense of it, but the more I looked at it, the more I felt this nagging urge to open it, to see what was on the other side. So, I walked up to the door slowly, carefully. My hand reached for the handle, and I gave it a tentative tug. To my absolute surprise and growing unease, the door wasn’t locked. For something so massive and intimidating, it opened easily, almost too easily. It barely made a sound as it swung open.

The Creepy Room

What I saw on the other side is something I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget. I carefully shone my flashlight into the room. The first thing that caught my eye was a single chair sitting right in the middle of the space next to an old bulky television, one of those big boxy ones from decades ago. The chair was made of metal and had these straps attached to it—not just random straps, but clearly meant to secure someone’s arms and legs. The straps looked worn and frayed in some places, like they’d been used more than once. And then I saw it: on the straps meant for the wrists, there were these dark crusty stains. It wasn’t dirt; it was dried blood.

I froze. My flashlight shook in my hand, the beam jittering across the chair and casting warped flickering shadows on the walls. My stomach churned, and my mind raced with questions I didn’t want to answer. Whose blood was it? What had happened here? Why was this even under the house?

I turned my attention to the TV, partly to distract myself and partly because I was desperate for something, anything, that would make sense of what I was seeing. The television looked just as old as the chair, maybe older. It had that old-school design with big dials on the front, and the screen was coated in a layer of dust that glimmered faintly in the beam of my flashlight. But what really unnerved me was the fact that the TV wasn’t plugged into anything. I scanned the room for cables or outlets, anything that could explain how or why the TV might have been used, but there was nothing. No wires, no power source, no DVD player, VCR, or even an old cassette tape player. Just the chair, the TV, and the suffocating silence of that room.

The Second Door

I decided to leave that strange place immediately. I mean, I wasn’t just uncomfortable or uneasy—no, I was downright spooked by what I had seen. It wasn’t something you could easily shrug off. My gut was screaming at me to just turn around, get back to what I was doing before, and pretend none of it ever happened. But something kept pulling me forward. I don’t know why exactly, maybe it was the feeling that I had stumbled upon something bigger, something I wasn’t supposed to see.

I stepped out of the room and heard the sounds echoing through the tunnel—the voices, the hum of machinery, distant but constant. It was like the walls were alive with it. I couldn’t shake this strange feeling creeping up my spine, but for some reason, I kept moving forward. After only a few steps, maybe 10 at most, I saw them: those black metal doors. They were right in front of me again.

At first, I thought I was losing it, like, “Wait a second, didn’t I just leave these same doors behind?” It was such a strong déjà vu moment, the same ominous vibe. But no, as I got closer, I realized they weren’t the same doors. These were definitely different—a whole other set leading to a whole other room. I stood there for a moment, frozen, just staring at them. Should I go in? Should I turn back? Every rational part of me was screaming, “Don’t do it! Don’t you dare open those doors!” But you know what? Curiosity got the better of me again. I told myself, “What’s the worst that could happen? Just a quick look and then I’m out of here.”

So, I took a deep breath, gathered every ounce of courage I had, and stepped forward. My hand reached out to the cold metal handle, and with a shaky grip, I pulled. And guess what? Just like before, the door wasn’t locked. It swung open smoothly, almost too easily, and I was hit with a wave of cold stale air. The room beyond was pitch black, not a sliver of light. I reached for my flashlight, but of course, because my luck couldn’t get any worse, it decided to die on me right then and there. The timing was so perfect it felt like some cruel joke.

I fumbled for my phone, praying it had enough battery, and managed to turn on the flashlight feature. That’s when I saw them: shelves, rows and rows of shelves stretching all the way up to the ceiling. They were packed completely packed with these black boxes, perfectly identical, stacked neatly one after another. It was unsettling, but at first, I thought, “Well, at least it’s not as creepy as the last room.” Boy, was I wrong.

The Black Boxes

I couldn’t have been more wrong. I stepped further in, shining my phone’s light across the rows of boxes. The whole setup was so precise, so orderly that it gave me chills. Who organized this? Why black boxes? What was in them? I wanted to leave. Every instinct in my body was telling me to get the hell out of there. But something kept me rooted in place, like I had to know what was in those boxes.

And then I saw it—something that I can’t shake from my memory, no matter how hard I try. Something so disturbing, so unnatural that even now, thinking about it makes my skin crawl. I slowly approached those boxes. They were made of cardboard, simple enough, but the fact that every single one of them was pitch black, it made my skin crawl. It wasn’t just their color; it was how uniform they were, how they seemed to suck the light right out of the air. There was something almost unnatural about them, like they weren’t meant to be here, or maybe I wasn’t meant to see them. I don’t know, but the more I stared, the more this burning curiosity inside me grew. I mean, I had to know what was inside at least one of them, right? I couldn’t just walk away now, not after coming this far.

So, that’s what I did. I reached for one of the boxes. It was on the bottom shelf, and I had to crouch down to pull it out. My hands, I swear, were trembling so much I almost dropped it. I wasn’t sure if it was from fear or excitement or maybe a bit of both. My heart was racing like crazy, and I could hear it pounding in my ears. But I couldn’t stop myself. Curiosity was like this force that completely took over me.

When I opened the box, the first thing I saw was a photo, just a simple photograph of a woman. She looked like she was in her late 40s or early 50s, maybe. Her hair was pure white, cut short and styled neatly. She was smiling in the photo, but something about it felt off, like her eyes didn’t match the expression on her face. It wasn’t someone I recognized, a complete stranger. Underneath the photo, I noticed a disc—one of those old-fashioned CDs wrapped in a clear plastic sleeve. My brain was already swimming with questions, but I kept going. Beneath the disc were some papers, just loose sheets stacked neatly. I thought about looking at them, maybe trying to figure out who this woman was or what any of this was about, but before I could even process it, my eyes caught something else.

There was something under the papers, something small, something that didn’t belong. My stomach dropped as I lifted the papers to see what it was. At the bottom of the box, there were two small clear plastic bags. I picked one up with shaking hands and held it close, shining my phone’s flashlight directly on it. And that’s when I saw it: hair, white hair, the same exact shade as the woman’s in the photo. It was tied in a little bundle, carefully sealed inside the bag. My breath caught in my throat. I wanted to put it down, to just close the box and walk away, but I couldn’t. My hands were moving on their own now. I grabbed the second bag and held it up to the light. Nails, fingernails. Someone had clipped their nails, collected them, and stuffed them into this bag.

My mind was racing, and I felt like I was going to throw up. I couldn’t believe what I was looking at. Hair, nails, a photo, a CD, and God knows what those papers said. I couldn’t make sense of any of it, but one thing was crystal clear: I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have seen this. I dropped the bags back into the box and slammed the lid shut. My hands were shaking so badly now that I could barely manage to put the box back where I found it. I sat down on the cold hard floor, trying to catch my breath. My chest felt tight, and my head was spinning. What the hell had I just stumbled onto? And why were there so many of these black boxes? The shelves were stacked to the ceiling, each one identical, each one hiding who knows what kind of horrors inside.

I wanted to get up and leave. My brain was screaming at me to just walk away, to forget I ever saw any of this. But my body wouldn’t move. I sat there for what felt like an eternity, staring at the endless rows of black boxes, trying to piece together some kind of explanation. But nothing made sense. Nothing about this place felt real anymore.

Finally, I forced myself to stand. My legs felt like jelly, and my head was pounding, but I knew I had to leave. If someone caught me here, I didn’t even want to think about it. I turned back toward the tunnel and started walking, each step feeling heavier than the last. My breathing was shallow and ragged, partly from the thick stale air and partly from the fear that was eating me alive. I was almost at the exit when something stopped me: those damned tracks, the ones that ran deeper into the tunnel. I had noticed them earlier but hadn’t given them much thought. Now, though, they seemed to call to me, pulling at that same curiosity that had gotten me into this mess in the first place.

I don’t know why I did it. Maybe I was still in shock, not thinking straight. But instead of leaving, I turned and followed the tracks. The further I walked, the darker and more oppressive the tunnel became. The air was so heavy it felt like it was pressing down on my chest. I could barely see a few feet ahead, even with my phone’s flashlight. After what felt like forever, the tracks came to an abrupt end, a dead end. And there, sitting on the tracks, was an old rusted cart. At first, I thought it was empty, just an abandoned piece of equipment left to rot. But as I got closer, I saw that wasn’t the case. There was something inside: clothes, just piles and piles of clothes.

And before it stopped, there were stumps of blood that probably led to the discovery of scratches. At first, I didn’t think much of it—clothes, okay, whatever. But then I looked closer. These weren’t work clothes or uniforms; they were regular clothes—jeans, shirts, dresses. There were even shoes, men’s shoes, women’s shoes. They looked fresh, like they hadn’t been there long. Some of them still looked clean, like someone had just taken them off and thrown them into the cart. That was it for me. I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned and ran. I didn’t care about being quiet or careful. I just needed to get out of there. My footsteps echoed through the tunnel as I bolted toward the exit, my heart pounding so hard I thought it might explode.

When I finally made it out, I barely took a second to catch my breath. I finished my work as quickly as I could, not even caring if I did a good job, and got the hell out of there. The whole drive home, my mind was racing. I couldn’t stop replaying everything I had seen: the boxes, the hair, the nails, the clothes. I’d remember the dress if I saw it today—black and white and nothing. For days after, I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those boxes, I saw the hair, I saw the nails, and I kept asking myself the same question over and over: What the hell was that place? Whatever was happening there, it wasn’t something I was meant to see, and honestly, I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had just walked away because now I can’t stop thinking about it, and I don’t think I ever will.

The Aftermath

The days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, but the memory of that chilling discovery never faded. It haunted me, gnawing at the back of my mind like a relentless shadow. I tried to bury myself in work, taking on more projects than I could handle, hoping that the distraction would help me forget. But it didn’t. The images of the basement, the tunnel, the creepy room with the chair and the TV, and the endless rows of black boxes were etched into my memory, refusing to be erased.

I started having nightmares. Vivid, terrifying dreams where I was back in that tunnel, the walls closing in on me, the air growing thicker and more suffocating with each breath. In these dreams, the chair would come to life, the straps writhing like snakes, reaching out to grab me. The TV would flicker on, displaying horrifying images that made my blood run cold. I would wake up drenched in sweat, my heart pounding, the echoes of my own screams still ringing in my ears.

My colleagues noticed the change in me. I was jumpy, easily startled, and constantly on edge. I snapped at the smallest things, my patience worn thin by the constant fear that lingered just beneath the surface. They asked me what was wrong, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell them. How could I explain something so surreal, so horrifying, without sounding like I had lost my mind?

I considered going to the police, but what would I tell them? That I had stumbled upon a secret tunnel beneath a celebrity’s mansion, filled with creepy rooms and mysterious black boxes? They would think I was crazy, or worse, they would investigate and find nothing, leaving me looking like a fool. Besides, who would believe such a wild story? It sounded like something out of a horror movie, not real life.

So, I kept it to myself, letting the secret fester inside me like a poison. I tried to rationalize it, to find some logical explanation for what I had seen. Maybe it was all just a misunderstanding, a bizarre coincidence. Maybe the boxes were part of some art project, the chair and the TV props for a movie set. But deep down, I knew that wasn’t true. There was something sinister going on in that basement, something dark and twisted that I couldn’t begin to comprehend.

The Search for Answers

As the months turned into years, the memory of that day began to take on a life of its own. It became an obsession, a puzzle that I couldn’t solve, a mystery that I couldn’t let go of. I started doing my own research, digging into the history of the mansion, trying to find any clues that might explain what I had seen.

I learned that the mansion had a long and checkered past. It had been owned by a succession of wealthy and influential people, each with their own secrets and scandals. There were rumors of underground parties, secret societies, and illicit activities that took place behind closed doors. But nothing concrete, nothing that could explain the tunnel, the room, or the black boxes.

I even tried to contact some of the previous owners, hoping that they might shed some light on the mystery. But they were either unwilling to talk or had no knowledge of what I was asking about. It was like chasing a ghost, a shadow that slipped through my fingers every time I thought I was getting close.

The Final Straw

One day, while scrolling through an online forum dedicated to urban legends and conspiracy theories, I stumbled upon a thread that caught my eye. It was a discussion about secret tunnels and hidden rooms, and one of the posts mentioned a mansion that sounded eerily familiar. The details were vague, but the similarities were too striking to ignore.

I reached out to the poster, a user who went by the name “ShadowHunter.” We exchanged messages, and I shared my story, careful to leave out any identifying details. ShadowHunter was intrigued, and we agreed to meet in person, hoping that by pooling our knowledge, we might be able to unravel the mystery.

We met in a quiet café, far from prying eyes and ears. ShadowHunter was a middle-aged man with a nervous energy, his eyes darting around the room as if he expected someone to be watching us. He told me that he had heard rumors about the mansion, whispers of a secret society that used the basement for their rituals and ceremonies. He had even seen some of the black boxes, though he didn’t know what was inside them.

We compared notes, sharing everything we knew, every detail we could remember. It was like fitting pieces of a puzzle together, slowly forming a picture that was both fascinating and terrifying. We agreed to keep digging, to follow every lead, no matter where it took us.

The Breakthrough

Our investigation led us to an old, abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. It was a place that had been mentioned in some of the rumors, a location where the secret society was said to meet. We decided to check it out, hoping to find some answers.

The warehouse was dark and eerie, the air thick with dust and the scent of decay. We explored the building, our footsteps echoing through the empty halls, our flashlights casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. It was like stepping into a different world, a place where time had stood still, frozen in a moment of forgotten history.

As we ventured deeper into the warehouse, we found a hidden room, tucked away behind a false wall. Inside, we discovered more of the black boxes, stacked neatly on shelves that lined the walls. We opened one of the boxes, and what we found inside sent a chill down my spine.

It was another photograph, this time of a man. He looked to be in his mid-50s, his hair graying at the temples, his eyes cold and distant. Beneath the photo was a CD, wrapped in a clear plastic sleeve, and a stack of papers. And at the bottom of the box, carefully sealed in plastic bags, were more samples of hair and fingernails.

We looked at each other, the realization dawning on us like a cold, harsh light. This was no art project, no movie set. This was something far more sinister, a dark and twisted game that had been playing out for years, hidden beneath the surface of society.

The Confrontation

We knew we had to act, to expose the truth and bring those responsible to justice. But we also knew that we were dealing with powerful and dangerous people, individuals who would stop at nothing to protect their secrets. We had to be careful, to plan our next move with precision and caution.

We gathered evidence, documenting everything we had found, every detail we had uncovered. We reached out to contacts in the media, hoping to find someone who would be willing to listen, to believe our story and help us bring it to light.

It was a long and arduous process, filled with setbacks and disappointments. But we refused to give up, driven by a burning desire to see justice served, to bring the truth to light and put an end to the darkness that had haunted us for so long.

The Resolution

In the end, our persistence paid off. We found a journalist who was willing to listen, to believe our story and help us bring it to the world. The article was published in a major newspaper, sending shockwaves through the community and sparking a public outcry. The authorities were forced to investigate, and the truth began to emerge, piece by piece, like a puzzle finally coming together.

The mansion was raided, the tunnel and the hidden rooms exposed to the light of day. The black boxes were seized, their contents examined and analyzed. The evidence was overwhelming, and the members of the secret society were brought to justice, their dark and twisted games finally coming to an end.

As for me, I found a sense of closure, a release from the haunting memories that had plagued me for so long. I was finally able to put the past behind me, to move on with my life and leave the darkness in the shadows where it belonged.

But I will never forget that day, the chilling discovery that changed my life forever. It was a reminder that sometimes, the truth is stranger than fiction, that the world is filled with secrets and mysteries that lie just beneath the surface, waiting to be uncovered. And it was a testament to the power of curiosity, the burning desire to know, to understand, to seek the truth no matter where it leads.

In the end, it was worth it. The journey was long and arduous, filled with fear and uncertainty, but it was a journey that led to the truth, to justice, and to a sense of peace that I had never known before. And for that, I am grateful. For that, I will always remember.