We've all got a list--mental if not committed to paper or intertube--of the elements of horror entertainment that freak us out the most. Whether your displeasure derives from eyeball trauma, rape, disembowelment, or any of the other entries in the catalog of terrifying images, you've likely encountered something utterly appalling at some point during your film-watching career.
One of my own Horror Bad Touches is necrophilia. I know what you're thinking--that's not terribly logical, as it's something that would happen to me *after* death, and you've got a really good point. Perhaps I ought to clarify--I am really squicked out by necrophiliacs as they're portrayed in the horror genre. There's something about the profound loneliness and misanthropy of the cinematic necrophile that's tragic and dangerous at the same time. The cinematic necrophile is the kind of person who is completely alienated from his fellow man, and is therefore capable of committing terrible acts of violence without a flicker of remorse.
And--not for nothin'--but you guys have seen "Nekromantik," right? German director Jörg Buttgereit's 1987 micro-budget "boy-girl-corpse love triangle" tour de force? I didn't want to talk to any human beings for a full 24 hours after watching that movie, out of fear that one of them had a spark in his eye because he was thinking about ripening up my cadaver for a vigorous buggering. Needless to say, I developed an only-semi-rational fear of Mr. Buttgereit after watching this movie, and I developed a rather florid image of him as being a crippled old troll of a person with asymmetrical, hooded eyes and a string of yellow drool coming from the corner of his mouth.
Oh no no, interpals--it's TOTALLY WORSE than that. Because Jörg Buttgereit is an icy Teuton of the sort that makes me weak in the knees. I was so completely dismayed by his gorgeousity that (in spite of the promise of Many Crisp American Dollars scrabbled together by SO-CALLED FRIENDS) I found myself unable to do a meet-and-greet with him at a convention a few years back. That's right--my mostly-irrational ick-factor extends even to artists who *discuss* necrophilia.
In an effort to engage in self-led exposure therapy, I've sought out non-fiction information on this ghoulish taboo behavior. One of my favorite non-fiction presentations on necrophilia is this three-page entry into "The Big Book of Death" (published in 1995 by Paradox Press), in which artist Craig Hamilton adapts the romance comic book style to profoundly macabre subject matter. Enjoy, friends!