It was cold, almost supernaturally cold at the tiny crossroads of Blackwell’s Corner. Debbie was quiet as we watched the flat horizon and gray clouds. The place hadn’t changed much since September 30, 1955. The roads were still two-lane highways, the fields of vineyards and trees were the same. Cars still zipped along, faster than they should on this forgotten corner of the central valley of California. It was here that movie star and racing enthusiast James Dean made his final stop before, 26 miles further, he had a date with destiny in the form of a fatal head on collusion. Debbie and I were here at the behest of a British TV company doing a documentary on Dean and reports of his ghosts. At this crossroad witnesses have reported encounters with Dean’s ghost. We were waiting in the van while to crew were interviewing the owner, about Dean visit so long ago and the stories of his ghost.

Debbie didn’t want to get out of the car. She wanted her psychic impressions to be and fresh. So we waited. She was nervous because she didn’t know if she would find anything, after all those years. She was picking up a lot but most of it was the earthquake that shook the area almost a month ago. We watched and waited as the camera crew did one shot after another. I told her to just go with the flow, if she didn’t feel anything, so what. Just see if there wasn’t some trace of emotion at this gas station/gift shop. It was a lonely place, it looked like it could just a shot of paint. I guess businesses like this are common enough but few have a place in Hollywood history like this spot.

At last the director approached the car and let us know that it was time for Debbie to investigate. We had to explain what she was doing. It’s a form of psychometry. She can feel a place and pick up images from the past. It’s a bit like looking into another age. Sometimes she can do it, and sometimes she can’t. The microphone was attached and the crew set up the cameras.

"I guess its now or never," she said as we stepped into the bitter cold afternoon and walked towards the market.

She was diverted to a large piece of cement, where a rugged tree stood. I asked Debbie if she felt something. I saw the look on her face I had seen before. She was getting impressions from the past. She waved for me to be quiet as she walked, silently.

"Do you get something from the tree?" asked the on camera host, a pretty young woman from Scotland.

"No," answered Debbie as she kept walking. She didn’t go far before she stopped.

The air seemed still at this place. Only the traffic noise broke the silence.

"I get him here." Debbie said.

"Who?" I asked.

"They were here under this tree, James Dean and another man–Rolf."

"What were they doing?" asked the host.

"They stopped here. The building was different then, smaller. Dean has a headache. And he needs to...."

"To what?" asked the host.

"Use the bathroom." Debbie said.

She then cockled her head to one side.

"I am picking up something else. They are having an argument. Rolf wants to drive. He’s upset about something. The motor of the car isn’t acting right. He is also angry about a speeding ticket."

"What are they doing?" I asked.

"Dean has a headache and moves over to the building. He turns and says something to Rolf. Then he goes into the building. Rolf has the hood up and seems to be mumbling to himself."

Debbie went on to talk about how Dean used the outside rest room and bought a bottle of apple juice and some smokes then went outside to the car. He insisted on driving his Porsche Spyder race car. He needed to break it in before the race in Salinas the next day. They would stay in Paso Robles and tune the high performance engine again.

Perhaps it was Dean weary state, his worry about the motor that somehow contributed to the accident 27 miles away that ended his life. Debbie had caught an image from the past. Dean in his last stop. Human, focused on the coming race, and without a care in the world. He hadn’t an inkling that his life would end with a head on collusion at a tiny hamlet called Cholame.

His friend and Mechanic, Rolf Wutherich was with him and survived the accident on the road. Now a monument marks the location of the fatal accident. It stand some 900 yards from the crossroads where the promising young actor died.

"He wouldn’t have liked this," commented Debbie. "He would have wanted to die on the track, racing, doing the thing he loved most."