I read a
short story once in college about a girl who was a necrophiliac. She started out by rubbing dead woodland creatures on her naked body to absorb their energy, then she got a job in a morgue and had her way with corpses at night. Eventually she gets a depressive emo boyfriend who becomes convinced that she'll only truly love him if he offs himself.
If nothing else, it convinced me that Canadian short stories kick American short stories' collective ass. (It was in a Canadian Lit class).