They come to the shady little house on Hooper Avenue because they believe in the old ways of healing.

As they begin arriving in the twilight, they chat on the sidewalk and eat tamales, bound by their common faith that the spirits will cure where doctors have failed.

They drive from Pico-Union, Hollywood, Altadena--all to have a "consultation" with 23-year-old Genaro Cortez, who they believe holds a remarkable power to heal.

"He is my doctor, he is my brother, he is my friend, he is my priest," said Eva Baron, 64, who says she is being cured of a chronic headache.

She believes that Cortez, of Tepic, Mexico, is an espiritista, a type of faith healer common in rural Latin American villages and a rapidly growing fixture in Southern California.

Four nights a week, Baron joins mostly Mexican and Central American immigrants in front of the Templo Espiritual in a quiet South-Central neighborhood. The temple was recently gutted by fire, and Cortez now holds services in his adjacent house.

When the soft-spoken young pastor with a looming presence opens his doors in the morning, a faithful crowd of people, some of whom camped overnight, await him. They know him as Timoteo Garcia (he did not explain why he adopted that name). On Sundays, a line of more than 100 people stretches down the sidewalk while a boy sells tamales from a grocery cart.

"It's a tradition that's booming in Los Angeles," said UCLA folklorist Patrick Polk. He said he gauges the trend by the growing number of streetside botanicas, which sell the ritual candles, incense and herbs of traditional healers.

"Twenty years ago, maybe there was a dozen botanicas," Polk said. "Now there's over a hundred."

Espiritistas like Cortez are just one type of curandero, or curer, whose practices are generally a mix of Spanish tradition--handed down by the Arabs and ancient Greeks--and Native American tradition dating back to the Mayan and Incan civilizations.

Some curanderos use herbs or massage. Others claim to be psychic or use black magic. They range from grandmothers treating their families to faith healers in storefront temples to unlicensed dentists and inyectadores who give vaccines bought in Tijuana.

"Anybody can step forward and be a curer," said USC anthropologist Andrei Simic. "Some might be legitimate; others might be out there just to fleece people."

Some, like the late Don Pedrito Jaramillo of the Texas border region, become folk saints--so famous that ailing people make international pilgrimages to their homes, said Polk.

Cortez's followers come from all over the county and hear about him through word of mouth. On a recent brisk morning in his dirt driveway, more than 20 people sat in folding chairs on a piece of carpet soaked by the night's rains, holding babies and drinking coffee. Bundled in shawls, serapes and sweatshirts, they came with all manner of medical afflictions.

"I come here because my mom is sick with cervical cancer in Guatemala," said Norma Dominguez, 43, who said she spends the night in her car outside the temple four times a week. Since she began visiting Cortez, she said, her mother "looks like new. Her face looks young."

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Dominguez, a factory worker, buys a $10 ticket from Cortez for every consultation, a cost she insisted is minor compared to medical bills.

Consuelo Rivera, 35, brought her sister-in-law to Cortez from Hollywood to cure her crippling arthritis. The young woman had seen doctors for years to no avail, she said.

"They gave her a lot of medicine," said Rivera. "They took liquid from her knees and ankles. My brother had to help her eat because she could not move her hands."

At the temple, Rivera said, she helped the young woman to the stage in front of about 100 people. Cortez placed his hands on her forehead, closed his eyes and prayed. Then he stood back, and the woman walked back to her seat without help, Rivera said.

"The first day she was home, she could wash dishes," she said.

Of course, these types of ceremonies have been performed, and doubted, for centuries. And there are doubters even within the field of curanderismo.

"One of the things about this field is you find a lot of rip-offs," said Oscar Reconco, a Honduran immigrant who works as a psychic and curer from his home in Echo Park. "You can put a drop of dye in water, and they'll buy it because they have faith."

But law enforcement can do little to crack down on charlatans because it would be impossible to prove in court that something or someone is not holy, prosecutors say.

"As long as it's based on some sort of fundamental religion and not some guy trying to sham, if people are really drawn to the faith healer, he's probably beyond the law," said Assistant Atty. Gen. Charlton Holland.

He said herbalists who make diagnoses and prescribe herbs for ailments might be pushing the legal limit.

"That would be real close to the practice of medicine," he said.

Los Angeles police detectives said they only act if a curandero makes a false diagnosis and someone complains about it, which people seldom do.

"If we don't have complaints," said bunco-forgery Det. Al Ventura, "these people are just filling their pockets. You get enough nickels and dimes, and you make a good living."

Another fraud detective said it would be difficult to prove in court that these healers were any less effective than psychologists.

In fact, some researchers say curanderos are offering a form of psychotherapy, often to people who can't afford to visit doctors or therapists.

"Among yuppies, we spend a lot on Prozac and psychologists," said Armida Ayala, a USC doctoral student in anthropology. "I think some of these populations have created these resources the best they can without a lot of money."

Ayala said curanderos offer immigrants a ritual from the old country that helps them cope with life in the city. Going to a curandero is also an opportunity for social gatherings among people who thrive on a sense of community, she said.

"Have you ever gone to a Latino neighborhood? People are outside," she said. "They can't understand the individualism of sitting in your apartment watching 'Seinfeld,' where people don't need that interaction."

Cortez's followers acknowledge that they enjoy talking and drinking coffee together in the morning, but say they are there for very tangible problems. And some doctors, although skeptical of the merits of Cortez's brand of healing, say they don't necessarily discount it.

Dr. Aliza Lifshitz, a Los Angeles internist, writes a health column for La Opinion, the Spanish-language daily. She estimated that in the 14 years she has been in practice, hundreds of her patients have also visited curanderos.

Lifshitz said curanderos can provide a valuable service.

"Do I believe that mental attitude can strengthen the immune system? I do believe it," she said.

She said she does not believe that Cortez can cure Dominguez's mother in Guatemala of cancer, "but I think she's going to feel better."

In cases where patients with potentially serious ailments turn to curanderos instead of traditional medicine, she said, serious problems can arise.

"If a woman finds a lump on her breast and goes to the curandero," she said, "that obviously is having a negative impact on {her} health. That should never happen."

People waiting for Cortez said they visited him after getting no results from conventional medical treatment. Many also came with psychological and legal troubles which they felt religious faith could cure.

Though Cortez is married and has a baby boy, his followers consider him a Catholic pastor, and make a strong distinction between him and "bad" curanderos who practice black magic. He says a Mass every Sunday, which some of his believers consider as holy as those said by ordained priests.

"When I sleep, I talk with spirits," Cortez said. "It is something spiritual. It is not a power. It is faith."

Cortez said he was given the ability to heal by God when he was 5, and he worked healing people on Central Avenue for several years before moving to the temple on Hooper five years ago.

He has no formal connection to Roman Catholicism, but academics say these folk traditions have intermingled with the church for hundreds of years, especially in remote regions where the Vatican has less influence.

"In Latin America, there's all kinds of folk varieties of Catholicism," Simic said. "And almost every kind of cult in Los Angeles has some elements of Catholicism."

Father Joseph J. Driscoll, executive director of the National Assn. of Catholic Chaplains, said the church has become more open-minded toward practices such as Cortez's since Vatican II in the mid-1960s called for, among other things, a more open stance toward different faiths.

"After Vatican II, there was a real effort to show respect and appreciation for the culture people come from," Driscoll said. "We see how much of this is mixed up {with religion}."

Cortez's neighbor, Jose Gasca, is skeptical. He is a devout Catholic and thinks those who visit Cortez are misguided.

"He is a false prophet," he said. "The church has a head, with cardinals and priests. He doesn't have permission. He is not Catholic."

Some of the people waiting in Cortez's frontyard draw a distinction between him and the clergy, and they visit traditional Catholic churches to worship. One regular said many just show up to be cured and never come back. There is a constant flow of new visitors.

Oscar Ornelas, 10, stood in line last week, waiting for Cortez to heal his eye, which he hurt playing basketball. At the end of the line, two women who had never visited Cortez before said they had absolute faith in him, based on the miraculous stories they had heard.

Around 10 a.m. the chatter stopped. The crowd slowly shuffled up to the front porch. Some carried carnations and roses to offer God. Incense wafted through the doorway and garlic was strung across the windows. Cortez's wife sprayed supplicants' hands with water while they waited for the white-robed pastor with the light eyes and flattop haircut to appear.

"He is someone who helps the people," Dominguez said before stepping in. "I have never visited anyone else. I have faith in him."