(Photo credit Corey Bond via: https://saskwatchers2019.blogspot.com/2019/02/robin-hood.)
When I was a kid we (me and whoever) sometimes ended up down by the Robin Hood Flour Mill in Moose Jaw. There was a dirty little creek near to it, in it's shadow, and looking in you'd see crayfish (a novelty to me), old discarded tires, broken medicine bottles, pop bottles, scrap iron slowly rotting away.
It was the early-mid 70s, so environmental concerns were not yet a thing.
Robin Hood was the biggest building in the city, by far, and had the grim reputation of being the place where people that were depressed would come to kill themselves. Drug addits, drop-outs, the love-sick, whoever. Every kid had some 4th or 5th hand version of what would happen if you when you landed, and a few of our teachers as well. You'd end up with your knees through your chest, or spread out like a water balloon, every bone broken and yet still all contained within your skin like a blob, so and so knew an paramedic, police officer, fireman, someone who had been called...
In my childhood it sounded like this was a regular thing.
Probably it wasn't, it would only need to happen once or twice for the community to retain the memory and see that everyone remembered.