The ‘psychic’ who refuses to read for someone, or who does and sees nothing, and the client dies in a crash on the way home, is a well-known urban myth.
And I’ve told this on here before, but my mother talked throughout our childhood about this astonishingly accurate psychic she’d seen, who got everything right and predicted the sexes and number and birth order of her children and knew impossible amounts about her childhood and parents etc etc, and about whom she talked with total reverence.
One Christmas when we were all adults, a transcript my aunt had taken of that ‘reading’ turned up in a twentysomething year old handbag. Predictably, my mother had exaggerated, innocently, the ‘hits’, a lot of it was vague stuff about initials and illnesses, and the rest was general stuff any half-competent cold reader could have inferred from my mother’s age, clothes, social class, country accent, wedding ring etc.